


Glorfindel's Last Hurrah

by Wynja2007



Series: Glorfindel's Yuletides [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dragons, Gen, Getting to Valinor the Quickest Way, M/M, Night of the Names, Post-War of the Ring, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 76
Words: 198,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9147355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/pseuds/Wynja2007
Summary: When Glorfindel has a prophetic dream suggesting his friends in Eryn Lasgalen are in trouble, of course he sets out to help.  And, of course, his friends in Rivendell refuse to let him go alone...





	1. Welcome to Rivendell

**Author's Note:**

> Originally intended as a Yuletide offering, it's a little late...

‘Come on, sleepy-head, time to shift your lovely backside.’

Glorfindel patted said backside until its owner grumbled softly and wriggled back against him.

‘Not quite what I had in mind, penneth. Come along, stir yourself.’

‘Must I?’ The dark haired beauty rolled over and blinked soft grey eyes at him. 

‘Sorry, yes. Breakfast in an hour, and you need to be in your own room in order to leave it again…’

‘But, Findel, everyone knows about us, they’ve known for ages…’

‘I know, Mel.’ Glorfindel sighed and ran an affectionate hand down Melpomaen’s arm. ‘But them knowing we’re bed-friends and working out which nights we actually share a bed are entirely different. Besides, if people knew, really knew, they’d start to pair us off in their minds. And that wouldn’t do you any favours, would it? Not long-term.’

It was Melpomaen’s turn to sigh. He sat up in the bed, covers falling down to reveal beautiful, soft skin with an olive tint; unusual, in a Noldo, but then, there was much about Mel that was out of the ordinary. He had taken over Rivendell’s healing duties when Elrond had Sailed, and supplemented the existing body of knowledge with a mixture of traditional human cures and Silvan lore passed on to him by various visitors to the Valley. In addition, he was a skilled craftsperson, making beautiful miniature trees from twisted wire and semi-precious gemstones, he was fascinated by all things that grew and, most importantly to Glorfindel’s mind, he had a kind and generous heart to match his strong, firm young body.

He was also, poor soul, in love with Lindir, but it seemed unlikely the Valley’s talented minstrel would ever love him back; Lindir had fallen for a human female who lived far down in the south some twenty years before, and as if it wasn’t bad enough that the woman was only likely to live for a handful of decades, she had also, in Lindir’s absence and unaware of his feelings, apparently married someone more appropriate to her station and had a son. So Lindir was pining, Melpomaen was pining for Lindir, and Glorfindel was pining for his forever love on the far side of the Sundering Seas and trying not to mope for someone a little more recent in his past and a little nearer to home… he and Mel had at least found some consolation in each other’s arms, though perhaps it was not what either of them really needed…

With a shake of his lovely hair, Mel slid from the bed, exposing his sleek body and perfectly rounded buttocks. Glorfindel bit his lip. Their arrangement was quite specific; each would come to the other’s bed at need, for company or cuddling, love-making or just solace. But once morning came, there was never any repeat of passion, for that could have turned them from bed-friends into something more, and although they both, from time to time, teased the other about it, flaunting a little or allowing the covers to slip away, it felt important, somehow, not to cross this self-imposed and mutually-agreed line. It was hard, though, looking at the gently jiggling glories so presented to him and not reaching out…

Glorfindel tried to think of the most unromantic thing possible, frowning as he concentrated.

‘Findel? Are you all right?’ Melpomaen asked, catching sight of the scowl. 

‘What? Yes, fine, just wondering when those Galadhrim are likely to get here, you know what they’re like, worse than Silvans for sitting in the trees twittering. Worse even than squirrels.’

Mel laughed.

‘Well, it’s not your responsibility to find them nuts, yes? That’s Erestor’s job.’

‘True enough. At least these days all I have to do is sit there and flex my muscles occasionally. Listen to the stories about how wonderful this chap Glorfindel was way back in Gondolin and pretend it was me… and even that’s not so often these days…’

The young Noldo came back to the bed, reached out to trace the pattern of old scarring on Glorfindel’s chest.

‘I know the stories say the Valar sent you back like this so nobody would doubt your courage, nor fail to honour you for your suffering, but why do you think it was? Really?’

‘Really?’ It was a delaying tactic, they both knew it, for the walk from one bedroom to the other, although only a couple of corridors away, always felt as if it took them away from something special. Today, Glorfindel allowed the pause. ‘It was because my fëa never healed from it, I think. I was scarred like this in Mandos – worse, in fact, to start with. I saw Thel there, of course, and he bore the marks of his last battle… before you say it, yes, he drowned, but not before he’d taken some serious wounds; why do you think he head-butted Gothmog if not because he couldn’t use his sword arm? Well. We talked a lot, of course, spent time together, not that you really notice time passing there… and his scars faded almost to nothing, and mine lightened a bit. When I was re-embodied, I was like this – not nearly as marred as I seemed in Mandos, but still…’

He took Mel’s hand in his, gave it a gentle squeeze.

‘It’s all right; they don’t hurt. It just makes a bit of a contrast between what everyone sees when I’m dressed, and what you get to see. I’m not shy, of course, just… the excuses to strip off are really very far and few these days. Now. Shift yourself, sweet Mel! Or we’ll have some explaining to do!’

*

They met again in the main hall where breakfast these days was an informal affair.

Elrond had sailed three years after the end of the War of the Ring, and now, some fifteen or so years on from then, Elladan and Elrohir had established a less formal way of running things. Not that their father had ever been anything other than the perfect host, but he had been quite strict on matters of who sat where in the hall. Now his high backed chair on its dais at the top table was empty. For some time after Lord Elrond’s departure, a sign had been attached saying ‘Position Vacant’, presumably put there by Glorfindel since in the twins’ opinion, there was no position to be filled.

In fact, Imladris was ticking over quite nicely in the opinion of not only those who lived there, but those who were frequent visitors too. Occasionally, guests from Lórien arrived and bemoaned the loss of standards, but generally speaking even the Galadhrim approved the change of leadership.

Elladan had yet to marry, but seemed unconcerned in general about his bachelorhood. Talk was that he had fallen in love with someone quite inappropriate, and had decided to stay single rather than lower the standards expected of the son of Elrond. Elrohir, on the other hand, had confounded everyone by not only binding himself to a Silvan, but to a Silvan ellon at that, and while the only elf who had minded was Elrond, it still drew shocked whispers from visiting humans who somehow never found themselves invited back; even the legendary hospitality of Imladris did have its limits.

This morning a smaller group than usual gathered for breakfast; Elrohir and his husband Rusdir were away, having left a few weeks so earlier on a visit to Rusdir’s honour-sister and nephews in the still-new Northern Palace complex in the Greenwood; the Silvan’s brother had died during the War of the Ring, and Rusdir tried to get back as often as he could to see his remaining kin. The dark of the year was approaching, and with it Yule, and the Silvan Night of the Names, where the dead were honoured and their names spoken, and so it was an important time for the family to be together.

With them they had taken a letter and six bottles of honey beer, a gift from Glorfindel to Commander Triwathon, the leader of the palace garrison. It was this Triwathon whom Glorfindel was trying not to mope over, for once they had been lovers, in love, but always knowing their love would be fleeting; although freed from his vows, Glorfindel still insisted that he would one day return to Ecthelion, his forever-love waiting in Valinor. And besides, Triwathon was far too young for Glorfindel to feel it fair to tie him down to a relationship that really would go nowhere.

So what had once been an intense, passionate love affair had faded to well-wishing, semi-formal notes exchanged at New Year and gifts at Yule; there had been visits, at first, but then Triwathon grew busy with his new posting and Glorfindel had felt able to smile and let the visits dwindle and stop and tell himself it was really, truly, over, that the affair had run its course and served its purpose. And with every night Mel spent in his bed, or he in Melpomaen’s, it felt more and more as if it really was the case.

Crossing the breakfast hall, Glorfindel took his place between Erestor and Lindir with a smile and a nod to both. Beyond Erestor sat Arveldir, formerly advisor to the Elvenking, Thranduil, but who had fallen in love with Erestor and at last had been able to marry him and retire to Imladris where he helped his husband keep things running smoothly.

Elladan entered the hall, moving slowly to accommodate the silver-haired ellon whose arm he supported; Celeborn, the twins’ maternal grandfather, had not sailed with others of his kin but had stayed on for a time in dwindling Lórien and then come north to Rivendell; he had not adapted well to life after his wife Galadriel had sailed, and now needed help and care to get safely through his days. But he showed no resentment for his loss of vigour, being calmly grateful for such service as he required, drinking perhaps too deeply of the good, red wines in the hopes of soothing the sorrow of his fëa. 

Lindir rose from his place to greet the former Lord of Lórien, taking over from Elladan and leading Celeborn to his place while Melpomaen set food and drink for him; generally, Mel and Lindir were responsible for most of the silver-haired Sinda’s care during the day, while his grandsons saw him to bed and helped him rise in the mornings.

Glorfindel smiled sadly. He understood something of grief and loneliness, and had an idea of how much loss the old lord had suffered; his daughter so badly injured she could not recover but had to sail, his granddaughter wedded to a mortal, his wife departed for the West…

Whereas Glorfindel had just lost everything, and everyone, all at the same time and had returned to Middle Earth to find the world reshaped and all the people, everyone, everything he had known and loved gone. But it had been different, somehow; he had been reborn in a strong, young body and although it had been difficult, he had not, at least, had to sit and watch everything he had built crumble slowly to ruin around him.

Mel caught his eye and smiled back. He pressed his hands gently onto Celeborn’s shoulders.

‘There, my lord, will you have me help you this morning? Or would you prefer Lindir’s company?’

Celeborn looked curiously into Mel’s face for a moment, bringing up a hand to touch the young ellon’s cheek with an empty smile.

‘So kind,’ he murmured. ‘So fair.’

‘No, let me take a turn today,’ Elladan said, taking a seat. ‘Here, Daerada, there is some of the tea that you like… let me help you…’

Melpomaen slid into an empty space opposite and a little way along from Glorfindel; it meant he could both talk to his friend and glance at Lindir from time to time without attracting too much notice.

‘It is so sad to see,’ he said softly. ‘Celeborn is not well, but nor is he ill in any way that I can help with; as Lórien has faded, so has he. Really, we should try to get him to the Havens and onto a ship; it would be the best thing for him…’

‘It’s about the only question he gives a determined answer to, however,’ Erestor said. ‘We have asked in many ways, and many times, will you sail, Lord Celeborn? Would not you like to see your daughter once more, your wife? And he always says no, he will not, no, not yet…’ Erestor lifted a hand and let it fall, exasperated. ‘It is the only thing that will help him and yet… have we the right to force that decision on him when he seems so determined to stay?’

‘Personally, I think it would be wrong for many reasons,’ Glorfindel said. ‘He has so few choices left it would be cruel to take the last one away from him. And he may have good reasons to want to stay, things he can no longer put into words…’

Erestor glanced along the table. Elladan had gone to the side tables and was asking the servers something, out of earshot.

‘Elrond should never have left,’ the advisor said in quiet tones. ‘Yes, the power of the Valley was beginning to fade, and it showed, even then, and I understand he had no wish to witness its demise further. And Arwen, I know he didn’t want to stay and see her age and die. But that does not diminish the fact that he ran away. The Valley felt abandoned by him, as well it might, and so we are left to nurse it into its new phase of life, or sit with it while it dies, along with his honour-father while he goes swanning off across the sea to be reunited with his wife…’

Arveldir cleared his throat; it was unlike Erestor to be so very bitter, and even rarer for him to speak openly about his feelings for his former lord and employer.

‘Let us console ourselves with the knowledge that the reception Elrond will receive from his wife, given all that has since transpired and which, no doubt, has provided the inhabitants of Valinor with many interesting stories and much gossip, is hardly likely to be warm and companionable,’ he said.

Glorfindel hid a grin. He had liked Celebrian and knew that under a genteel exterior and lively sense of humour, she had a way with words to make your hair curl, even if you were a straight-tressed peredhel with Noldo blood… and Elrond’s behaviour had become increasingly disappointing; he had patronised his daughter to the point where she had been driven to passive-aggressive crochet, had taken a lover and then abandoned him somewhat callously… and thereafter been utterly opposed to any mention of same-sex relationships manifesting in the valley, causing considerable heartache for several of the inhabitants of Rivendell and necessitating various sneaky tactics from others…  
Eventually Elrond had mellowed, but only, really, because he’d had to, the weight of opinion being against him and the disclosure that one of his sons preferred ellyn making it impossible for him to continue to protest. 

Really, when one thought of it like that, it wasn’t surprising Elrond had wanted to leave the Valley…

It was just the sense that he had abandoned his daughter, too, that rankled; he could easily have gone to Gondor for a few years, but no. Instead he had run away to the West leaving, oh, look, Erestor and Glorfindel to take care of his family for him. As usual.

To be fair, that was Glorfindel’s job. He had died helping Eärendil, Elrond’s father, escape the ruin of Gondolin, and when he had been sent back, it was in order to support Elrond as he strove to bring order to Middle Earth and establish a safe haven for Elvenkind against the welling darkness. The Lord of Imladris hadn’t been all bad, and apart from one or two foibles, had a reputation for wisdom and healing unsurpassed in the region.

‘You look pensive,’ Melpomaen said, refilling Glorfindel’s cup with the spiced tea served at breakfast in the cold months. ‘Is there anything wrong?’

‘Hmm? No, just thinking… I don’t suppose you’ve heard yet when those Galadhrim are expected?’

‘Are you still worrying about them?’ Mel laughed. ‘No, I haven’t heard.’

‘In fact, not worrying now at all. They might be good company for Celeborn, that’s all. Maybe do him good, wake him up a bit, poor fellow.’

‘It is distressing to see him so diminished… although I have only known him on his visits here…’

‘Yes, well, in his day he could wave a sword and yell a battle cry with the best of them. Stories tell he and Oropher used to spar together, that it was only after Oropher lost a practice bout to him that he started fighting with two swords… Oh, and that Oropher taught Celeborn to crochet… those are not the stories they tell in the Greenwood, of course, so keep it to yourself…’

The youngster laughed. ‘If ever I meet any Silvans again, I’ll be careful. Not that I think it’s likely; I rather feel the only journey I will make now will be the one to the Havens.’ He sighed. ‘I used to think I would like to travel…’

‘Well, you never know, Mel; you may see one or two places yet before you sail.’

*

The expected company of Galadhrim arrived late in the afternoon, just nice timing to unpack and visit the hot spring bathing rooms and get changed before supper, as Elladan remarked to Glorfindel, making the seneschal laugh.

‘Yes, perfectly judged! I reckon, if we were to ask around, we might even find that they stopped off in one of the taverns, so as to arrive once the day’s work was over…’

‘Daerada saw them arrive, he was so pleased! I heard him saying names under his breath; Haldir, Rúmil, Orophin… I know them, of course, met them when ‘Dan and I would ride escort for Arwen.’

‘The three brothers, yes. I didn’t see them in the party?’

‘That’s the sad thing; they’re not here. I think they already sailed.’

*

There were almost a score of the visitors, and when everyone sat down to supper, Glorfindel found himself feeling the elves of Imladris were uncomfortably outnumbered. Suddenly, he missed Elrohir and his laughing Silvan husband. Without them, somehow, the hall felt diminished.

Knowing his preferences, Erestor had done his best to seat Glorfindel where he wouldn’t have to make conversation with too many strangers; placed next to Mel and with the empty seat formerly occupied by Elrond on his other side, there was only the person opposite who needed including in the conversation, so it wasn’t too much of an effort. The Galadhrim had been introduced as Pelilastor, and responded politely to Glorfindel’s social efforts.

‘Yes, it was a long journey; for myself, I have not travelled outside our borders before and so many things were new to me. Yet it was sad to see marks of destruction still in the landscape; the earth is slow to heal such wounds, it seems.’

‘I know; it’s been a sad time. Everything’s starting to come back, though. Except for the Valley, which is changing, of course.’

‘Fading, they say, as our own sweet Lórien fades…’ Pelilastor sighed. ‘As is our lord, it seems.’

‘Yes, well, what do you expect, he tries to hold on and you abandon him and go running off to…’ Glorfindel broke off, shaking his head. ‘Sorry. I doubt it was your fault. Even if you were there, which I don’t know, of course.’

‘No more than it was your fault that Isildur did not destroy the Ring of Power when it first came to him. Even though you were there, which is a matter of record.’

‘Point taken. Sorry, it’s just… sad.’

Pelilastor nodded.

‘On that we can agree, Lord Glorfindel; it is very sad.’

*

Next morning, once Glorfindel had talked Asfaloth into going for a ride – the horse was beginning to feel his age and sometimes only wanted the comfort of his stall – they set off for a gentle amble along the valley trail. It was one of those cold, winter-bright mornings and frost crisped the landscape, making plumes of their breath, so that Glorfindel fancied he was riding a dragon. A tame, friendly dragon, unlike those he had encountered in the past, obviously…

The bells on Asfaloth’s harness tinkled as they meandered along the trail and the terrain changed from manicured garden to woodland, the deciduous trees skeletal and naked against the dark greens of the needle-clad pines.

‘Well met!’ a voice sang out from the branches of an almost-denuded oak. ‘A fine day, is not it?’

Glorfindel reined in close to the occupied tree and grinned. Pelilastor was sitting on one of the lower branches, just a little higher than the seneschal’s eye level.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Enjoying the valley? Are your friends with you, or…?’

‘Some were, earlier. I lingered. Then the trees told me someone was heading this way and I decided to wait and see whom it was. I am glad it is you.’

‘I’m flattered… that is, I think I am flattered…’

The Galadhrim laughed.

‘Nay, do not be anxious! I merely…’ He tilted his head to once side, eyeing Glorfindel as if weighing him up. ‘You were on the point of being outrageously outspoken at supper last night.’

‘I suppose I was. Did I apologise? I thought I had…’

‘Indeed, you did. I mention it because… it is rare, I think, for one such as you to be so swiftly moved to anger. It suggests to me that you care deeply for our lord and so how can I be offended when you merely point out what might have caused his diminishment? Instead, I would ask – how may I help him?’

‘That’s easy; spend time with him. Talk to him about the old days, the people and places you might have shared. Take it slow, smile a lot, wait for him to hear you; it’s as if he’s muffled, somehow, and it can take a while for things to sink in. He’s not – he’s not simple, or anything, you understand. He’s still all there, just… it’s as if… he’s a bit like Rivendell is now; most of the rooms are unoccupied, so one by one, we shut down a corridor or a wing. That’s like Celeborn; he’s shut down most of the rooms of himself as the people that were in them with him have left.’

‘And so, just as you may have reopened rooms for visitors, so he may open more of himself if he has new companionship?’ 

‘Talking about people he knew, he likes that. It’s even better if they’re people who aren’t dead yet.’

‘Tell me, if you will, if it is not an impertinence; why have you not sailed, Glorfindel? When Elrond left, would that not have been a good time?’

‘It might, except I don’t think shutting me up on a boat with Elrond for up to a month is a good idea…’ Glorfindel grinned. ‘It wasn’t time yet. I came back to serve the line of Eärendil, and that meant Elrond, yes. But it also means his children; while Arwen is here… and then, after, I need to make sure the lads are all right – Elladan and Elrohir, I mean.’

‘But if you were not here, would not someone else do that?’

‘Probably. But why should they?’ Glorfindel shook his head. ‘No, Elrohir will be all right, I think – he’s married, and if anything will ground you, it’s being with your forever-love… Elladan… I worry about him, a little. Still. When the time comes, that’s time enough to think about such things. And I don’t mind; I’ve been around for so long now that what’s another century or two? We’re elves, after all, it’s just a little delay… Well. I need to get Asfaloth back to the stables, will you walk with me?’

‘Yes, I will walk back with you. But when my friends leave for the Havens, I will stay and bear my lord Celeborn company. I will try, also, to persuade those close to me that it would be an honourable thing to do, to try to cheer him. Perhaps one day he might wish to take ship, and we can escort him in honour then; a few years delay is nothing.’ He smiled and inclined his head. ‘After all, we are elves, are we not?’


	2. '...Just this once...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a disturbing dream threatens Glorfindel's peace...

One thing about the Galadhrim, they did bring the place back to life a bit. Songs in the Hall of Fire were brighter, more heartfelt that night. The visitors were kindly attentive to Celeborn, taking turns to sit with him and talk about things they had in common; people, events, trees, other trees…

Elladan, Glorfindel noticed, already looked less stressed.

‘To be honest, it’s been a strain, with Roh away,’ he confided in the seneschal. ‘And Daerada’s starting to look a bit happier, don’t you think?’

Glorfindel nodded, his attention not really on the conversation. Across the hall, one of the Galadhrim was talking to Melpomaen; it looked more than friendly, and when the visitor lifted a hand to touch Mel’s hair, Glorfindel had to look away and stifle a growl; even though he and Melpomaen were only bed-friends that didn’t mean he wanted the youngster getting swept up in the mystery of one of Lothlórien’s former denizens and ending up pining even more...

Moments later, though, Mel was by his side, laughing, offering wine.

‘That fellow! They are not subtle these Galadhrim, “Do you happen to know any good talain around here where one might spend the night in company with a fair young Noldo, perchance?” I told him; no talain, no spending the night, didn’t happen to know any fair young Noldo… then he smiled and lifted an eyebrow and he said actually, he meant me, so I told him I was flattered but I was already spoken for. I may, I hope, share your bed tonight, Glorfindel? It would be such a kindness…’

‘Anything to protect you from the bold Galadhrim, penneth.’

‘I’ll go ahead, then, and wait for you.’ Mel smiled. ‘Bring a bottle of that beer you like, if you wish; we can play Silvan games.’

‘Make sure you bring a towel, then!’ 

*

_…There was a voice._

Glorfindel tried to ignore it, to turn away, but the voice whispered on, urgent and insistent.

‘If you leave at once…’

He knew it, of course, knew who it belonged to…

This was a dream, it had to be a dream, that was the only time he saw this fellow these days, in dreams...

‘You can do it if you hurry…’

Everything about him dark. Hair like indigo silk, eyes like obsidian, black robes, when he moved, light spilling out. His breath, as he whispered, so sweet, fragrant.

Suddenly reaching out to grab one of Glorfindel’s golden braids and tug hard.

‘Now, sluggard – wake up! You have need of haste this day.’

*

Glorfindel sat up with a gasp, his head still aching from where his braid had been yanked by his dream vision of Lord Námo, Doomsman of the Valar. Next to him in the bed Melpomaen whimpered a protest and grabbed at the sliding covers.

Sweet Mel! Warm and friendly, loving and caring, but no desperate, intense love between them, just gentle affection; he really ought to sail soon, but...

Now he rolled onto his back and looked up at Glorfindel with sleepy eyes.

‘What’s the matter? It’s dark, still, you never wake before dawn in winter...’

‘Just a dream,’ Glorfindel said absently. ‘At least, I hope it was a dream...’

He slid down in the bed, turning onto his side to prop his head on one hand and smile winningly at Melpomaen.

‘But, seeing as we’re both awake...?’

But Mel, healer and mystic, was frowning.

‘What was your dream, Glorfindel?’

The golden-haired seneschal sighed, looking down into Mel’s gentle eyes and knew this little interlude of peace was ended, at least for a time.

‘Dragons,’ he said.

‘Dragons? But… I do not understand… Where, dragons?’

‘In the Greenwood, I think. I have to go, Námo says, I must…’

Glorfindel sighed, unable to shake the dream, the sense of something ending, and leaned forward to kiss his friend gently on the cheek.

‘Thank you for this, Mel,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a kind companion. I know I’m not who you really want...’

Mel grimaced, trying to smile but emotion getting in the way.

‘We’ve been kind companions to each other. I’ve been less lonely, thanks to you. Maybe I really will sail soon.’

Glorfindel shook his head as clarity came to him.

‘No, you won’t,’ he said. ‘At least, not until Lindir does. Then it’ll all come right for you, you’ll see. I know, I know he loves his human lady, but have you ever thought what will happen after she dies?’

‘Not with respect to myself; it would feel wrong. But for Lindir…’

‘He will be very sad, of course. If he doesn’t go to see her, he’ll feel ashamed of himself for not making himself be braver. But if he does go, and he sees she’s happily married, he might feel better for her, if worse for himself. And if he were to go and find she was widowed or something, then he might get a few decades with her to be happy in. Then he’ll be heartbroken when she dies, of course. But at least he won’t have the guilt and the shame that he’ll convince himself is his due that way. If you get the chance, Mel, make him go to see his Kovalia. However much it might hurt him, it will be the sort of hurt he can get over that way.’

‘Findel? Why this, why now?’

‘Because I might not have chance to tell you else. Oh, and he’s going to need someone, a shoulder to cry on. But – and you’re probably wise enough to know this – if you want to love him, let yourself be just his friend. I know Lindir, he might want more… physical comfort. Solace. But it you do, then it will be much harder for you to be his lover afterwards, he…’

‘Glorfindel! He loves his Kovalia! He isn’t going to want anyone else, ever; she is his forever-love...’

‘You think? That would make them fëa-mates… but they can’t be that, Mel. Because she’s human and he’s an elf. She has a soul, not a fëa; it isn’t going to happen.’

‘But… Arwen… and her Estel…’

‘Arwen’s peredhel ancestry. She can choose to love as a human or to love as an elf. She’s gone for the mortal option, so she’ll be treated as a human, according to her human love. But Lindir’s a full elf. He doesn’t get to choose. Only to be sad when his human lady dies. Mel, it means that there’s a fëa-mate waiting for him somewhere. I think it’s you, if you can be patient enough to wait for him to see it for himself. You certainly deserve to be loved by someone who can give you their heart, their whole heart, Mel. I’ve been so grateful to you. The winters would have been very cold without you.’

‘Glorfindel – all this makes it sound as if you’re saying goodbye...?’

‘I know, I hate it, but... that’s how it feels, penneth. So… just this once, come back to bed and make love to me as the day breaks?’

‘Findel… how can I refuse when you say things like that? Yes, just this once, but do not expect me to agree next time…’

The sad thing was, Glorfindel realised, even as he pushed the thought away and opened his arms, it did not feel as if there would ever be a next time…

*

They had been on the point of dressing when there was a knocking at the outer door.

‘Melpomaen, Glorfindel, you are both called to an urgent meeting in the Great Hall,’ Lindir’s voice called out. ‘Elladan says it will not wait.’

‘Ai, officially rumbled at last! Sorry, Mel!’

‘Don’t worry; I am sure there are other things to occupy the minds of our friends this morning.’

*

Breakfast had been laid in the Great Hall, but very few of those present were eating. 

Elladan sat in Elrond’s chair for once, his face pale and worried. Erestor and Arveldir sat quietly, waiting. Lindir’s brows were knitted; the minstrel was obviously disconcerted by whatever had happened to rouse the house this early. At the far end of the table, the Galadhrim were helping Celeborn who was oblivious to any undertones around him; Pelilastor looked round at Glorfindel and Melpomene’s entrance, looked away again.

Elladan saw them enter, relief lifting the worry from his eyes a little

‘Thank you for hastening,’ he said. ‘Something has happened – or will happen – to our friends in Eryn Lasgalen, I fear. You know how closely bonded Roh and I are… I had a dream, or a vision…’

‘Yes, of course,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Is he all right?’

‘I wish I knew... the northern enclave... I see Roh there, and Rusdir safe, and yet I feel this great dread, while around them is confusion… I do not want to worry anyone but, Glorfindel, I know sometimes you have insights too…’

‘Is it dragons?’ Glorfindel said. ‘I dreamed someone was telling me, there are still dragons and if you leave now, you will be in time...’

‘I do not know for sure, I saw flames, and... the talan towns burning, Silvans trapped between the flames and something large and looming, stopping them getting to safety... elflings, little ones, my honour brother has kin there...’

‘That sounds like dragons to me,’ Glorfindel said.

‘Is there ought else you can add, Glorfindel?’ Elladan asked.

The seneschal frowned, trying to remember...

‘That if I leave today, I’ll be in time,’ he said. ‘Otherwise... he was whispering, telling me things, but I can’t... just the dragons. And...’ 

He swallowed, suddenly unable to meet Melpomaen’s eyes.

‘And he said to make sure I said my goodbyes before I left.’

*

There were more arguments, in the finish, about who should stay than who should go. Everyone wanted to ride out to help their Silvan friends, it seemed, for since Elrond had sailed the ties between Eryn Lasgalen and Imladris had become much closer.

‘I have to go,’ Glorfindel said. ‘My dream visitor insisted; this is my duty.’ 

‘I’ll come too,’ Elladan said firmly. 

‘Look, you don’t understand. My dream, my visit from Lord Námo, my task!’

‘My brother needs me. Daerada can stay and look after business.’

Glorfindel sighed and glanced across at where Celeborn was frowning as he tried to put honey on his toast with the aid of a gentle-handed Galadhrim.

‘Your Daerada can’t even look after his own laces these days, never mind Imladris, ‘Dan, you have to stay...’

‘Well, Erestor and Arveldir...’

‘My lord Elladan,’ Arveldir interrupted. ‘You have always said I am a welcome guest, with no onus on me to work for Imladris, that I am a free agent. Now my former home, perhaps my lord the king, is in danger, how can I stay?’

‘And my place is with my husband,’ Erestor said.

‘But, Erestor...’

‘No, too often have I put my marriage to one side to serve the needs of the Valley; I will not do so again.’

‘Look, this is my party!’ Glorfindel said. ‘I’m not even taking Asfaloth; no, Elladan, you need to stay here, be safe.’

‘But you’re our friend, Fin. We can’t let you wander off by yourself; you might fall into the Bruinen…’

‘It’s too dangerous; I don’t matter, I’m ready to move on, if that’s what this is. But you have lives and people who need you…’

‘And we need you, Glorfindel,’ Erestor said. ‘Or we need to stand with you. You may have had the dream, but was not this the way, of old? One would have a vision and call his friends to help. You have spoken of your dream, this issuing a tacit invitation to the rest of us to help you in your task.’

‘But…’

‘Give in gracefully, Glorfindel,’ Arveldir said. ‘Or set off alone, but we will be riding the same trail, at the same time, whether you like it or not.’

In fact, the only ones who weren’t keen to go were Melpomaen and Lindir.

‘I am willing to stay here, and make sure Lord Celeborn doesn’t fall into the Bruinen,’ Mel said. ‘But I cannot be in charge. Surely, Lord Elladan, you could stay? If the news of dragons spreads, even though we are safe here, people will worry and without your leadership...’

‘What do you say, Lindir?’

The minstrel shrugged.

‘I am but a minstrel and occasional chamberlain; I cannot imagine it will be a matter for song, not at first, and while I have some skill with a longbow, I am out of practice...’

‘Stay here with me, then’ Melpomaen said. ‘Your singing is soothing, still, and Lord Celeborn is cheered by your playing. And besides, someone has to help Elladan with the Galadhrim.’

‘Now, wait! I haven’t agreed to stay, yet!’

‘No. But we have agreed for you, Elladan; you are needed here.’

*

Glorfindel went to the stables and had a conversation with Asfaloth.

‘You’ve been a great friend, the only friend I had at times. My best friend, this side of the Sundering Seas. We’ve seen a lot together, haven’t we, eh?’ He rummaged in his pocket and found a few dried blackberries which he fed to the stallion. ‘You’ve got me out of danger more times than I care to count. And I’ve taken you into danger far too often. So this time, I want you to stay here, do you hear me? Let Celeborn have a ride now and then, yes, I know he giggles and says ‘Nice horsey!’ and you hate being called a horsey, but he means it well… now, you wouldn’t want me worrying about you while I’ve got hero work to do, would you? And we’ll be in the forest, it’s not as if it’s easy terrain to ride through… no, I’m not saying you’re getting old. But only yesterday you were grumbling about being routed from your stall and having to carry this great lump of a seneschal up the valley, don’t think I didn’t notice…’

He sighed and buried his head in Asfaloth’s foam-bright mane. The animal snorted, shifting his front feet a little so that he braced against the ellon as Glorfindel’s arm went around his neck; it was a very good place to weep, hidden by your horse’s mane, and the seneschal and erstwhile Balrog-Slayer, hero of a hundred battles, wasn’t averse to a little cry now and again; he had learned long ago that letting his emotions build up wasn’t really good for any one, least of all Elrond’s household servants or the wine cellar, and he had no wish to take out his strange sense of sorrow out on his friends. Asfaloth stood as he had stood a hundred times, supporting his elven friend and providing his own sort of horsey comfort until presently Glorfindel sniffed, wiped his eyes on the back of his forearm, and stood eye to eye with his horse.

‘Now, there’s no need to get all weepy about it,’ he said bracingly. ‘You’ll be much better off here in the warm, and… oh, all right then. If you insist. Truth is, I don’t really like riding any of the other nags – don’t tell them, though – they don’t know how to pick out the softest path like you do. I’m sending you home, mind, as soon as it looks like danger, all right? All right. And then you can be friends with Mel for me, can you do that? Lovely. Well, while I’m here, I might as well braid your tail for you. Might even lend you one of my braid clasps, what do you think?’

Glorfindel was glad he’d got his emotions dealt with and tidied away when, some twenty minutes later, Pelilastor came seeking him in the stables. If the seneschal’s eyes were still red-rimmed, at least the Galadhrim had the courtesy to pretend not to notice and got to the point immediately.

‘You must want us gone, here at such a difficult time; and we gladly will head out towards the Havens if so… but some of my kin have asked if they might ride with you, for the sake of the old ties between our lord Celeborn and the Sinda kings of the Greenwood. Not many, I should tell you, for we are less bold than we were and really only came to pay our respects to our lord Celeborn before heading West, but a half dozen are willing. They are good archers, of course, and brave warriors. I will fulfil my promise and stay here with Lord Celeborn.’ He smiled. ‘To assist in preventing him from falling into the Bruinen.’

‘Thank you, that’s good of you. Elladan will sulk for a little, and then forgive us for leaving him behind. Melpomaen is a fine healer. Lindir… he helps run things when Arveldir and Erestor are busy, he’ll make sure the place doesn’t go to wrack and ruin while we’re gone, excuse him being a bit sad. So stay, all of you, as long as you like. Nobody will mind and it might be better for everyone else with more people around. And if your friends are riding out with us, it makes sense for you to wait for them to ride back with us and you can continue on together.’

Pelilastor inclined his head; neither elf voiced the thought that if it was really dragons, then maybe not all who rode out would ride back.

‘As you wish, then. We are grateful.’

*

The company rode out after a hasty midday meal. 

Glorfindel led the way, Arveldir and Erestor behind him, leading a supply horse, the six Galadhrim following after as rear-guard. None of them were exactly at ease, riding towards unknown danger, and it was not the best of times to be setting off across the Misty Mountains; less than two weeks from the dark of the year and the snowline, never far away at these altitudes, was soon reached and the pace slowed a little as the horses picked their way over slippery, icy ground.

‘We need to head north now, towards Trollshaws,’ Glorfindel said as they halted at the end of the first day’s riding. ‘It’s not the most obvious route, but it’s the one that feels right from my dream. Once over the mountains, it’s a straighter run to the forest. With any luck we should be there for Yule and in plenty of time for the Night of the Names if we got fast. It won’t be the first time I’ve hurried to get to the Woodland Realm in time for the celebrations.’ He halted, faltering. ‘I’ve wondered, you know, how is... everyone there...?’

Erestor and Arveldir exchanged glances. There was a tacit agreement that matters Silvan were not discussed in front of Glorfindel, except in the most general of ways, unless he asked.

But now, he was asking.

‘The last news I heard was almost two months ago now,’ Arveldir began. ‘Ahead of Elrohir and Rusdir’s departure; a standard missive, business matters mostly, no gossip. The prince and his spouse are still in Ithilien, and the king intended a visit to them; in fact, there were plans for him to spend Yule at the old palace we knew of yore, near the river, and then travel on to Ithilien for the New Year festivals.’

‘What about our... our friends in the new northern palace complex?’

Here it came. Erestor and Arveldir exchanged glances,

They had seen at first-hand how in love Glorfindel had been with his Silvan, had witnessed how the brave and gentle warrior had pulled the Balrog-Slayer back from the brink of despair more than once. But Glorfindel had seemed to accept their last parting as final, had moved on, in time, taken interest in life again. Still, it seemed, he held this Silvan still very close to his heart.

‘Commander Triwathon still leads the garrison there, with Master Parvon as Advisor-in-Chief to the palace.’ 

It was politic to mention Parvon in the same breath as Triwathon; the Advisor-in-Chief had been another of Triwathon’s admirers, steadfast and patient. Whether or not time had finally worked its magic and turned Triwathon towards Parvon, Arveldir did not know. But it was worth reminding Glorfindel that he might not light up Triwathon’s sky in quite the same way he used to.

But the seneschal shook his head, impatient, annoyed, perhaps.

‘Arveldir, Triwathon and I were over long ago. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss him, doesn’t mean I don’t want to know how he is. Just means I’m not going to make a nuisance of myself over him, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘No, my friend,’ Arveldir said softly. ‘I am worried only about causing you pain, and I know Triwathon would not wish you to be hurt, either. To the best of my knowledge, he is still single, still decorously pursued by Parvon, and still loving his job and doing it superbly.’

Glorfindel nodded.

‘My thanks. That’s more the sort of thing I wanted to hear, that he’s well, and happy, and still being amazing. A note at New Year doesn’t really tell me very much.’ The Balrog-Slayer sighed. ‘Seems like a long time ago now. Well, no, it seems like yesterday... but a very long yesterday, perhaps, a yesterday with far too many hours in it...’

‘If this is the start of one of your wonderful reminiscences, Glorfindel, I must beg to be excused,’ Erestor said. ‘We have a long ride ahead of us and I would rest my bones whilst I can. Besides, I was there when you met Triwathon.’

‘Were you? Sorry, I didn’t notice...’

‘As I recall, the king’s Honour Guard was about to ride home in their warrior paint, and you begged to become an honorary guard. Triwathon was the one who helped you with your paint...’

Glorfindel laughed. ‘Yes, yes, that indeed was the moment! Ai, Triwathon...! How very far we have come from that day, not just he and I, but you and Erestor, too...’

‘Ah, we have much to thank Triwathon for, Glorfindel,’ Erestor said.

‘Well, let us hope we can give him our thanks in person,’ Arveldir said. ‘And soon.’


	3. Garrison Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Commander Triwathon spends a convivial evening with old friends...

‘The scouts report another party of warriors marching up the North Trail, singing loudly about ‘Heroes Coming Home’,’ Parvon said. ‘Which makes the third party of heroes this week, Valar be praised, will we ever be done honouring them?’

Commander Triwathon, to whom the comment was addressed, laughed at this.

‘Ah, the old songs are the best... well, is there anything else I need to know, Master Parvon?’

‘Other than once more your name has been put forward to commence the observances on the Night of the Names...’

‘Again? Really, I am flattered, but is there no-one else?’

‘With our prince settled in Ithilien and our king away at the Old Palace this year...? Unless you want to ask one of our many returning heroes...?’

‘You know, I’m tempted... but if it’s what the people want... well, if I do the public observances, I can’t do the garrison’s commemoration as well... we need a warrior couple for that... ‘

‘Thiriston and Canadion are arrived, Commander – we could ask them?’

‘Yes, a good idea; they are well-respected and, if any have the right to sing Heroes Coming Home, it is those two.’

‘There is nothing more, Commander, except are you dining in the Hall tonight?’

Triwathon sighed. It was a formality he could do without, but the fact was, with the king away, there was no formal court other than Parvon and Maereth, in charge of the Healers Hall attached to the settlement, and the people in the talain around the New Palace did like to see someone at the top table when they came for the nightmeal… Still, it was good that so many had made the effort to come to the New Palace for the Yuletide Observances.

‘Yes, I will be there. Perhaps you can scout out one or two of the Heroes to join us, too?’

It was almost two decades since Triwathon had taken up his post as Commander of the New Palace Garrison, and while it hadn’t been easy – there had been much to learn and more to do – he had settled quickly into the life and learned to love this new part of the forest as much as the old; more, if anything, for he had made the garrison his, staffed with his chosen warriors under hand-picked captains.

There had been times when he had missed his old home, but so much changed and so swiftly in the years following the War of the Ring that there had barely been time to mope. There had been clearing up to do, too, as the darkest recesses of the forest began to grow light once more and the things that lurked in the shadows fled, quite often onto the bows and knives of his Silvan guards.

It seemed as if the forest was growing clean again, at last, for the number of incidents had been fewer in recent years and there was even a small, but vocal minority who were now concerned lest some of the forest’s species – notably its giant spiders – were on the verge of extinction which some claimed were now a vital part of the forest’s ecosystem...

Triwathon tried hard not to get involved in politics; that was what Parvon and the Palace Office was for; his job was just to keep everyone else safe while they were doing theirs.

The New Palace was situated far to the north, really less than a day’s march from the northern edge of the forest. Huge glades had been opened up following the fires that had raged during the Battle Under the Trees, recovering now and filling with lush, low growth, and it was around several of these glades that the talain townlets had established themselves, close to the series of caves that now housed the New Palace complex and its satellite garrison.

Triwathon had lived so long in the Old Palace, and so close to it, that the thought of even the half mile between the nearest settlements and the shelter of the caves sometimes alarmed him, not to mention the villages further out. These days there were new ways of doing things, innovations to pipe water from the rivers and springs so you didn’t have to fetch it for yourself, and there were schools enough in the talain settlements, so that your elflings wouldn’t have to have a Palace education unless they wanted to go into trade, or politics, or the formal standing army, or something like that, and in all the excitement of ‘new’ things, people were forgetting how close they still were to old dangers. 

The Commander had made his concerns known, of course, it was his duty, and he had been attended to, a little, at least; there was an alarm system, with each townlet and village having bells they could ring if there was trouble, the sound carrying through the forest to the watch flets outside the caves with different signals for different dangers. 

But it was hardly enough, Triwathon thought, as more and more elves flocked in, wanting to return to the old ways, and not to be too close to their neighbours, or to live in large communities, so that some of the newest talain townlets were more than five miles away from the New Palace. While most of these far towns were to the south, within easy reach of the trail to the Old Palace (and correspondingly settled by elves with family there in the original Old Palace complex), there were several outliers north and west of the New Palace, and it was these townlets about which Triwathon was most concerned. But, in short, people wanted to return to the old ways and the old days, but with the addition of such of the new that suited them...

The commander smiled to himself. Well, he could understand that. Hot water and washing cascades had been an innovation, a luxury back in the days when he was a newly made captain. And now, everyone had them – even in the townlets.

There was a good crowd gathered in the Feasting Hall, he thought, as he took his place on one side of the empty high seat. Parvon, at the other, nodded to him. At the formality of the top table, proper terms of address were adhered to, at least at the start of the evening.

‘Good evening, Commander Triwathon.’

‘Good evening, Master Parvon.’

The advisor had done well, Triwathon noted, gathering some interesting faces to the top table. At Parvon’s left sat Healer Maereth, and beyond her several veterans of the old days – Erthor, he recognised, and Calithilon. Brought together by injury, they had stayed friends ever since. To Triwathon’s right he could claim old friends, too – Captain Celeguel was there, grinning already at something she’d overheard. He had trained with her, and they had fought beside each other many times through the years. With her, Amathel, a superb knife-thrower and with a tongue as sharp as her blades. And beyond, completing that side of the table, Captains Thiriston and Canadion, a married couple who had been together since before Triwathon had gained his captaincy. They were a mismatched pair, you’d think; Thiriston bigger and burlier than was usual in a Silvan (some said he had cave-troll ancestry, but only while he was out of earshot) and was almost as old as the king, while Canadion...

It was fair to say Canadion was one of the loveliest beings ever to walk under the trees of Eryn Lasgalen. His skin had a golden, tawny sheen, his hair was long and shining and a rich, glossy chestnut and his brown eyes were ringed with gold and dappled with golden flecks. A ready smile, a slender form marked him out from the rest. An expert archer even among experts, as keen with a bow as his husband was with his throwing blades and each utterly devoted to the other, they were a formidable pair and Triwathon was not the only elf in the Greenwood who owed them his life several times over.

Another couple, even more striking in their disparity at the other end of the table, was made up of Rusdir, a former captain of the guard, and his husband Elrohir, the son of Elrond Halfelven. But he seemed a decent enough chap, brave in battle, devoted to his Silvan, and nobody in the forest held either his human blood or his Noldo ancestry against him. They were come on a visit to Rusdir’s honour-sister and had been persuaded to stay for supper before going on to her talan in one of the outlying villages; her spouse, Rusdir’s brother, had died during the War of the Ring and he tried to visit as often as he could to keep an eye on his two nephews.

The food was good; fairly simple, perhaps, but bountiful, for winter, and the wine and beer went round with no lack. Light conversation with his neighbours, the ease of their journeys in, their plans for after Yule, and when the meal was done, he invited the entire top table back to his rooms to reminisce.

‘We’ll pass, I think,’ Elrohir said with an easy grin. ‘And might we beg a bed for the night? It’s grown too late to arrive at Rhoscthel’s village tonight, they’ll all be bedded down by now. And I don’t think she was definitely expecting us today.’

‘Of course,’ Parvon said. ‘I will have a word with one of my assistants; we’ve plenty of space.’

‘I will decline, Commander,’ Healer Maereth said with a smile. ‘I have left my assistant alone long enough tonight. But it is lovely to see everyone again; especially you, Captain Canadion!’

‘It’s going to be a warrior party, I see,’ Parvon said. ‘And so I, too, will beg to be excused – a busy day tomorrow, with the Yule preparations to organise...’

‘Of course, Parvon, but if you change your mind, you know where we will be...’

*

Triwathon’s rooms were situated in the next corridor along from the garrison warriors’ quarters. They were spacious, not because he wanted imposing rooms, but because quite often he had meetings there, and the ability to seat a dozen or so visitors at once, in friendly surroundings, was of great use to him.

Tonight, it was just pleasant to take off his formal coat and relax amongst friends, to pass the wine around and smile at Amathel, and laugh with Celeguel and catch up on all the news.

‘How long are you back for?’ was a safe question. Many questions, for a Silvan, were not safe; asking after a person by name, for instance. Even in days of peace, there were dangers, and to speak the name of a dead Silvan, except on the Night of the Names or the anniversary of their death or their begetting day, was to disturb their rest. So you could not ask after an individual, not safely.

‘How long will you have us?’ Thiriston asked. ‘Ithilien, very pretty. Not for us, though.’

‘Too many Men,’ Canadion said with a shudder. ‘And they kept mistaking me for an elleth. Honestly, sometimes I think I should adopt female garb and have done with it!’

‘You would both be welcome, of course,’ Triwathon said, when the laughter at Canadion’s dismay had died down. ‘Any and all of you, if you want a change...?’

‘It is not too far north for you, melleth?’ Canadion asked his husband. The big elf shook his head.

‘No, it will be fine. I want a job with real trees around me again.’

‘In that case, seek me out after the observances,’ Triwathon said. ‘I’m sure I can find work for you both.’

And,

‘How are things here?’ was a safe question, too, a question Thiriston asked him.

‘We are settling, we are happy, we are increasing our numbers,’ Triwathon said. ‘This is the first year that our king has felt we are secure enough for him to leave us for a time.’

‘We happened to be at the Old Palace when he arrived,’ Thiriston said. ‘Going on to Ithilien to visit our prince, no less. We were there to catch up with family...’

‘Oh? And how are they, your honour-kin?’

Thiriston smiled and gave Canadion a nudge.

‘Why don’t you tell them about your father, penneth-nin?’

And Canadion was off, almost prattling about my Ada this and my Ada that and Honour-Adar Hanben has invented that...

Triwathon grinned, and passed round more wine.

‘Do you ever hear from across the mountains?’ Celeguel asked, after Canadion had told them all about his father and honour-father’s latest adventures modernizing in the old palace and had moved on to tales of his brother and family. ‘I saw Elrohir, I would have liked a chance to ask how things are with our other friends there.’

‘Yes, indeed. There is a monthly – or bi-monthly – exchange of news. All is well with our friends who settled there, and with those of the household we know. Elrohir and Rusdir were saying that Lord Celeborn is not in the best of spirits...’

‘And... and Glorfindel?’ Amathel was the one brave enough to mention him by name. ‘Is he still there, or did he sail yet?’

‘No, he is there, he sent me a gift of four bottles of honey beer with Elrohir, which seemed an odd number… and Arveldir writes that our old friend is well, and happy, and has taken up with one of the healers there but that they both think it is still a secret arrangement… I am glad of it, that he is not lonely.’

‘So does that mean you will be a little kinder to Parvon, now?’

‘Celeguel!’ Triwathon grinned as he protested. ‘I am always kind to Parvon! We are the best of friends and work exceptionally well together...’

‘So has he stopped chasing you?’

‘We work together exceptionally well,’ Triwathon repeated. ‘He has never chased me, but respects my boundaries even as I respect his feelings; in fact, I hold him in the highest esteem regardless of whatever our personal feelings may or may not be...’

‘Come, Triwathon, you have to soften towards him soon,’ Celeguel said, nudging Triwathon’s shoulder. 

Triwathon shook his head, smiling.

‘It really hasn’t been that long, you know. But I hold him in high regard. More wine?’

The mood grew relaxed as the wine was passed. Nobody was drunk, however, just laughing and loose-limbed, Canadion reaching the giggly stage when Triwathon lifted his head.

‘Is something wrong?’ Celeguel asked.

‘I do not think so – what could be wrong? But...’

But he was uneasy, and when next the wine passed, he abstained, and was glad when his guests had finally left, and he had his fireside to himself again.

Not for long.

He was debating whether to put another log on the fire, or to bank it for the night, when a familiar, discreet knock came.

‘Come in, Parvon,’ he called out, a smile in his voice despite the lateness of the hour.

The advisor joined him by the fire, to find a glass of wine poured for him.

‘Thank you, Commander. You had a pleasant evening, I hope?’

‘It’s always good to catch up. But it does mean the memories come back...’

‘Well, at least you are still here to have memories.’

‘True.’

‘I thought you would like to know the main doors are secured, sentries report all is well...’

‘Thank you, Parvon.’

‘...Although I cannot quite shake a sense of uneasiness.’

‘You, also?’ Triwathon shook his head. ‘I do not know, perhaps it is just that the trees here are mostly so young and fresh they do not know the signs of approaching danger for themselves, let alone for Elvenkind, that it is winter and the mature trees are slumbering so they are not alerting us to conditions... or perhaps it is merely anxiety as we are without our king...’

‘We do not need our king for us to be safe, Triwathon. We have you commanding the guard.’ Parvon raised his glass.

‘And you to keep everything else under control.’

‘Ai, we are being foolish; all is well, Triwathon.’

‘Yes, Parvon. All is well.’


	4. Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Glorfindel has another dream...

‘Wake up, sluggard!’

The command was accompanied by a tug on his braids so hard that Glorfindel yelped. As he focussed, there was Námo looking at him, not smiling or grinning tonight, just looking a bit cross.

‘My lord Námo?’ 

‘Come, you haven’t got long, and you will want your hair out of the way this time... wake up!’

‘This time...?’

But Glorfindel was talking to the dark night air and Erestor was crouched at the foot of his bedroll, about to shake him. Nearby, he could hear muffled weeping.

‘It is three hours before dawn, perhaps more. One of the Galadhrim woke a few moments ago in extreme distress,’ Erestor said. ‘Now, he may have dreamed about danger because we’re expecting dragons, or it may have been a vision; he admits he does not know. But Arveldir wishes us to ride for the garrison at once. ’

‘I saw him again, Erestor. I saw Námo.’ Glorfindel sat up and gathered his hair in his hands, twisting it around and around until it formed a sort of knot at the back of his head. ‘And he said... keep my hair out of the way this time, and I find that a little worrying...’

He pulled on his boots, fastened on his sword belt and found a couple of sticks which he poked through his hair to keep it in place. Arveldir was readying the horses, Erestor breaking camp assisted by most of the Galadhrim.

Glorfindel went over to the one who had had the dream-or-vision, hunkering down beside him.

‘Lumormen, isn’t it? I had a visit from Námo, what did you get?’

The Galadhrim shook his head.

‘Just... a sense of loss, of something ending, bigger than myself, than all of us... bigger than the forest...’

‘You don’t have to come with us; you volunteered, and we’re grateful, but if it’s too much, you can go back, take one of your friends with you.’

‘Thank you. But they say we will be there tomorrow – later today – no, I have come this far; I would feel ashamed to turn back now.’

‘Then all we can do is ride to meet it head-on. Whatever it is.’

Lumormen nodded.

‘I’m ready to face what comes.’

‘Let’s hope we all are.’

*

Triwathon was moving even before the knock came at his door, his boots on, his weapons in place, his light armour over his leather jerkin.

‘Commander, the warning bells...’

‘I am on my way.’ He pulled on his boots and opened the door, following his second along the corridor. ‘Report, please, Narunir?’

‘We doubled the watch. Some of the trees were uneasy. Then the bells started, something passed overhead, high in the western sky... sir, is it true, as they say, there are no more dragons?’

‘There have been no more dragons for thousands of years, or so they say, Narunir. But in that time, I have seen at least four.’

Outside in the dark night, the muster point was alive with warriors and orders. 

‘Commander!’ Elrohir hurried up, Rusdir with him, still buckling on weapons. ‘My husband woke up in a panic; the bells – our honour-sister…’

‘At the moment we do not know exactly what is going on, Elrohir, but…’

The duty captain stepped forward.

‘Sir, Captains Thiriston and Canadion, Celeguel and Amathel, Erthor and Calithilon all wished to be put to use amongst the guard.’

‘That’s excellent news. Rusdir, if you and your husband want to join us, we will be glad of your weapons.’ 

‘Of course, Commander…’

‘Thank you.’ Triwathon nodded them over to where the other visiting elves were gathered. ‘If it is dragons, we will need every bow, and I know many of you have fought dragons before. Welcome to the Garrison Guard. So. Three companies, one to guard the New Palace, one to respond with force, the third to assist the villagers to shelter.’

‘Yes, Commander,’ the duty captain began. ‘But... if it is dragons...?’

Triwathon nodded and raised his voice.

‘If it is dragons, then they are vulnerable in the eyes, down the maw if they are gaping ready to flame, under the throat. The smaller they are, the younger, the easier to kill. Watch lest one is a cold drake, with no flame but only breath; it is the breath that kills on that sort. If they are young, still, you can pierce the belly and that will slow the fires. But, basically, arrow after arrow until you can get close enough to hew the neck. Captains Canadion and Thiriston, I know you have slain dragons together but also that you have other expertise. Will you join with the company helping get the civilians to safety?’

‘Gladly, Commander,’ Thiriston’s voice was a growl.

‘Celeguel, I know you have dragons in your past, too. You and Amathel, with me, Erthor and Calithilon, too; you know how to fight such things. We head the attack force. Narunir, you have the most important job of all, holding the New Palace. This is the only safe shelter for miles; if we cannot slay this thing – these things – then you will have to do that and keep everyone safe, as well as get word to the Old Palace and to Ithilien.’

‘Agreed, Commander... but...’

‘You will have people coming in from the villages – well, that’s what they’re supposed to do when the alarms sound, but whether or not they all will… or will be able to…’

‘Commander!’ Parvon came across at a run. ‘I heard the bells and someone said, dragons, perhaps...’

‘Narunir’s command will guard you, Parvon.’

‘No, it will not! It will guard Faerveren; I will join the rescue teams. If there is fire, I understand how to use the water piping system...’

Triwathon drew breath to argue; Parvon was too important to the New Palace to allow him to take the risk, but before he could speak, Canadion jumped into the conversation.

‘So do I,’ Canadion said. ‘My adar showed me how to fight the fires from the water tanks; I am glad he is not here now, though. Parvon, if you could explain where to find the junction points…’

The Advisor was already nodding and Triwathon acknowledged defeat; after all, every hand mattered and at least fire control was slightly less dangerous than leading an attack on any actual dragons…

‘Good, that’s excellent. Parvon, do try to keep out of trouble. Narunir, you and your warriors have the hardest task although you may not think it. Everyone – may the Valar keep you and let’s try to keep ourselves alive, yes? Good fortune to us all. Lead out!’

*

The Rivendell company had been riding for about an hour when suddenly from far across the forest they heard the warning signals; a wild jangling rang out as if many bells were being shaken and rung all at once. Arveldir shook his head as everyone reined in, responding to the sound.

‘There is meant to be a signal system, three bells clear and a rest for fire, two and break and another two for an attack... not this wild panic...’

Glorfindel winced as a shadow and a streak of flame zoomed high overhead to the north east. The horses skittered, uneasy.

‘What’s the signal for dragons?’ he asked, dismounting. ‘Or shall we assume that was it? Whatever, we won’t get much nearer on horseback; the poor things are already edgy and they’ll do better without us. Can someone unload the pack horse?’  
Lumormen slid down from his horse to help free the pack horse of its burdens, and sent the animal off with gentle words back down the trail while Glorfindel drew Asfaloth to one side.

‘Listen here, old friend,’ he said, rubbing the horse’s forehead. ‘You know I didn’t really want you to leave your nice warm stable to come adventuring again, but you insisted. And you’ve been amazing on the trail. But it’s time now, dear old fellow, to say our farewells, just for a bit, eh? You can lead the other horses out to the scrub at the edge of the forest, water and forage there for you, don’t get too close to the hills, though, do you hear me? Might be wolves. So, go on home with you.’

Asfaloth pushed his muzzle into Glorfindel’s chest.

‘Yes, I know, old thing. But you wanted to come. Now, I won’t take your bells off you, but you’ll be better without the rest of it, yes?’

He stripped the light saddle and saddle pad from Asfaloth’s back, unclipped the reins to leave the horse just in his bell-bedecked headstall.

‘Now, go and make sure the other horses don’t do anything silly, will you? And watch out for dragons!’

The horse snorted, dipped his head, and turned to trot off into the forest. 

Glorfindel sighed. The sense of something coming to an end was growing in him, the feeling that this was the last thing he needed to do before he could sail, and he tried to shake it by turning back to the company. He wished Mel was there, so he could give him a hug, except he was glad his young friend was safe in the Valley, because it would have been worse to see so gentle and un-warrior-like an ellon thrust into battle against dragons… He pulled himself back from the thoughts as he heard muttering from the Galadhrim, who had reluctantly abandoned their mounts and stacked all the gear in the undergrowth with bad grace. Glorfindel called them to order.

‘We can’t make the horses ride into this kind of danger, we’re better off on foot anyway. So, come on, brace your backs. Arveldir, what do you suggest?’

‘We’re not really far from the new settlements,’ Arveldir said. ‘Perhaps a mile or so. We should head towards them.’

‘Can you smell burning?’ Lumormen asked.

‘Let’s hurry.’

Shouts, soon, ahead and to the left. Arveldir sent out an identifying whistle, and an answering call came through the forest.

‘Is that a Silvan? Who calls, who comes? Stay away, stay back!’ A young ellon came running through the trees, his hair awry, unbound. He was shaking. ‘Oh, Lords, I... dragons, there are dragons in the Greenwood!’

‘Say again?’ Glorfindel asked, reaching out a hand to steady the youngster. ‘What dragons, how many, where?’

‘Many, oh, I do not know, several groups, two or three at a time and... and the trees, ai, they were screaming and the fire... it is too late, and the others cannot get through, the ways are watched...’ 

Behind him, a little group, a cluster of distraught and dishevelled Silvans burst out from cover, all shouting and calling out.

‘The way to the New Palace is blocked!’

‘There are dragons everywhere!’ 

‘They flame if we try to get near, or around, or...’

‘Is anyone hurt?’ Arveldir asked loudly. ‘What’s happening in your village?’

‘Someone sounded an alarm, and we gathered in the Heart Glade to decide what to do, and some said, send the elflings to safety along the river trail, but the dragon stooped on us as we gathered and caught some up, then threw… threw them to the other littler ones and…’

He faltered and fell into weeping. Another ellon stepped up.

‘Lord Arveldir? Is that you?’

‘Yes, it is I.’ The advisor came nearer to look at the ellon more closely. ‘Cennon, is it not? What happened, can you say?’

Cennon shook his head. ‘Only that we were settled for the night and there was an alarm from the trees. Came a rush and wail and the forest ignited around us; a dragon circling, perhaps more than one. We all fled our talain to gather in our Heart Glade and found more dragons waiting there for us, two of them, they... caught several of us, ate... ate... still alive...’

‘Come.’ Glorfindel put a gentle hand on the ellon’s shoulder. ‘You need rest, healing, you...’

‘I need to find somewhere safe for my people, lord!’ Cennon protested. 

Others of the fire-damaged elves murmured assent.

‘There are other villages, and we cannot reach them, the fires are between us. We heard the bells, but one settlement did not signal, we fear the worst for them…’ 

‘Do you know ought of Rusdir and his husband Elrohir?’ Erestor asked. ‘They were visiting Rusdir’s sister, Rhoscthel? She is widowed, has two sons...?’

‘I know Rhoscthel. I... we...’ The elleth who had spoken dropped her head. ‘The next village north from us. The ones who did not signal the warning… I do not know anything of Rusdir or Elrohir.’

Arveldir nodded and turned again to Cennon.

‘We will leave two of our Galadhrim friends with your company; they are armed and well able to protect you, perhaps even from dragons. Lead them where you will, where you think best, but try to get to the New Palace if you can by the outer trails. We will press on and see if we cannot find a way round these dragons.’

‘Or through,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Do not forget through. We have destroyed dragons before.’

Waiting for the thought to sink in, and hoping it would bolster both those who remembered the fight and encourage those who had never defeated dragons before, he turned to Arveldir.

‘You probably know these woods better than any of us. What do you suggest?’

Arveldir ran a hand through his braids.

‘Standing orders when the alarms sound are to evacuate to the New Palace and, of course, the garrison will have heard the bells and will respond. But these settlements are so far out we could well get there before any help from the guard…’ He glanced at the huddle of refugees. ‘Rusdir is a fine shot, an excellent warrior, and his spouse Elrohir has skill with the sword and the bow; they will be able to help protect the village until we can get there.’

‘If you can get there,’ one said. ‘It seems to me now that the dragons had set the flame to encircle our village; what if this is what the dragons are doing for each settlement? What then?’

‘Well, can any of you suggest anything helpful?’ Glorfindel asked, trying to keep the acid from his voice; he was trying to stir everyone, he didn’t want them becoming more fearful… ‘Come on, none of us can stay here, and I’d rather go down fighting if I have to; if you’ve got several of these things to cope with, then the more damage we can do, the easier it will be for everyone else. Seek safety if you must, but isn’t there someone? Anyone? Well?’

The youngster who had found them first came forward. He was visibly shaking, his hair awry and tangled, his face smudged with soot and grime and he looked the most unlikely ally since a hobbit offered to save the world… but since said hobbit had, in fact, managed to save the world, Glorfindel wasn’t about to judge his only volunteer.

‘Brave lad,’ he said. ‘What do they call you, then?’

‘Thandir, lord.’

‘Thandir, eh? Well, I’m Glorfindel, yes, him, Balrog, all that, never mind it now, this is Erestor, and there’s Arveldir, who used to run the King’s Office back in the day. And the others are Galadhrim, don’t worry about their names, except Lumormen, he’s all right. Good, so that’s settled. Your village, which way?’

‘West, and north of west. But…’

‘West and north of west it is, then. We’ll go quietly, do you know any of the call signals?’

‘Just what they are. And my name.’

‘Good, Arveldir knows a few, I think. If we get separated, don’t shout, use the signal, yes?’

Thandir nodded. He looked across to his fellow-refugees. Cennon nodded.

‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I hope we may meet again before long.’

‘In one world or another, I am sure we will.’

*

Triwathon’s company set off with one of the rescue parties into the forest. As they readied themselves, the rescue captain called for order.

‘Did someone other than Master Parvon say they knew the water systems?’

Canadion lifted a hand, Thiriston echoing his gesture.

‘Then I’d like to keep Master Parvon with us; Pengnir and Hannith will lead you when we get closer. You’ll need to go to the fires, so you’ve just put yourselves into danger… ’

‘When did we ever do anything else?’ Canadion said with a sigh. His spouse rumbled a laugh.

‘Looking good on it, penneth. Come on, you know we were getting bored down in Ithilien.’

‘True.’

The companies inserted themselves into the forest as easily as a foot in a boot. Thiriston kept watch, looking to the trees for guidance, trying to unravel the scents of the forest mingling with the arboreal pheromones. But the night-time woods were cold and stark, the trees sleepy and less responsive than they were in seasons of growth, limiting the information the big elf could gather. He shook his head.

‘Too much smoke in the air, not the sort of wood smoke you get just from cook-fires… ach, I don’t like that at all!’ He wrinkled his nose at the drift of smoke that lifted through on the breeze.’

‘I thought it was a sweet smell, myself,’ Hannith said. ‘Almost like an evening roast when boar is on the spit.’

‘Exactly,’ Thiriston said. ‘I don’t know, maybe you’re a bit young to remember, but back in the day orcs used to eat their captives. If they weren’t too hungry, they’d cook them first.’

‘Are you saying…? Yrch?’

‘No, I’m saying burned flesh.’ He shuddered and Canadion stroked his arm. ‘I’m all right,’ he said, smiling down at his husband. ‘Really. Dragons, Hannith, what do they do?’

‘They… they flame, oh, sweet Lord Eru, are our people burning in dragon flame?’

‘Only way to find out is to get there.’

Canadion kept close to his husband, not quite believing Thiriston’s claim to be all right. He knew, although it was not common knowledge, that Thiriston had lost his parents to dragons when he was an elfling, they and almost all the caravan they had been with. More recently, but still a while ago now, there had been an attack on their camp by three dragons, one of which Thiriston killed and another of which had burned the Elvenking; Canadion, rushing to his king’s aid, had himself been injured by flame and still bore small scars to prove his courage.

As Triwathon led the two companies deeper into the woods and the darkness congealed around them, the taint on the breeze grew stronger. The shrill of the alarm bells had faltered, ceased as they advanced; either the villagers had become too busy to continue the signal, or they were unable to keep it up.

‘Can you go up?’ Hannith asked. ‘We will be quicker, have more cover.’

‘Not from dragons we won’t,’ Canadion pointed out, keeping an arrow nocked and an eye on the sky. ‘If they are distracted by the chase, by feeding and flaming, then they are less likely to notice us,’ he said softly. ‘We have seen how they delight in toying with their prey. How far…’

‘We risk falling behind the Commander; we would go faster in silence, keep to signals if you must.’

Thiriston caught Canadion’s eye. ‘I think she wants us to shut up and run, penneth. Just like the old days.’

Just like the old days. Well, they had come through those relatively unscathed, and many of the garrison guards were known to them from days of battle. They had fought with Commander Triwathon in the Battle Under the Trees, had seen him save the Elvenking and in turn had saved him; if there was anyone to go into battle with against dragons, Commander Triwathon was probably one of the best.

After they had covered a mile or more and the smoke on the breeze was more than just a taint, Commander Triwathon called a halt and addressed both companies.

‘We will continue on together, but don’t forget your allotted tasks; if you are on rescue and fire control and there is a better route, take it. But do not attempt to attack, no fighting unless you need to actively engage. We don’t really know what we’re tackling here yet…’

A shadow darker than the night and larger than nightmares passed high to the west, circling and rising to turn and stoop, echoed by other, slighter, shadowy shapes.

‘…but I would estimate a large dragon, perhaps not acting alone,’ the Commander finished. ‘Well. Onwards.’


	5. At Elm Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dragons are confirmed beyond a doubt, and Triwathon reaches the first of the villages...

Glorfindel insisted on leading the way, of course, Thandir at his side. Behind, Arveldir kept Erestor close, trying not to be obvious about it but failing; his husband nudged him.

‘I know you are worried for me, but I am not a frail little librarian, you know! I can shoot, I can move through a forest quietly and I can take care of myself!’ He smiled up at his beloved fëa-mate to take any sting from his words. ‘But thank you for worrying. I think, however, perhaps our Galadhrim friends are more in need of protection than I.’

‘We heard that,’ one retorted to be hushed by Lumormen.

‘Let us hope the dragons did not hear you, also!’ he said. ‘It is a fair point; when did we last lift a bow in anger? Our skills are not known to our friends. Let us try not to let them down.’

‘We’re probably all right for a little while,’ Glorfindel said, looking back. ‘The smoke isn’t that strong, we’re not close yet. But… it wouldn’t hurt to speak softly and move swiftly. Let’s pick up the pace a little, if you can manage, Thandir?’

The company fell silent and increased their speed as much as possible. It dawned on Erestor – an obvious fact, but one that had hitherto escaped him, that the attack had, of course, been ongoing for however long it had taken Thandir and friends to escape and to find them… a considerable delay was not helpful.

‘How long since the attack commenced, do you think?’ he murmured to Arveldir. ‘Twenty minutes?’

Arveldir sighed in the darkness. ‘Perhaps. I can feel the fear of the forest now.’

It wasn’t good. Around them the trees shifted, shivered the last of their leaves, sent out distress pheromones passed on from further in. To those attuned to such things – Arveldir and the Galadhrim – it increased tension, built fear, and the whole company flinched when someone burst from the trees ahead and to the right. Several bows targeted the Silvan who dropped to her knees.

‘Friend, I am a friend, there are… do not go that way, dragons! Young Beech Covert is aflame, as is Oak Stream Crossing and… oh, do not…!’

‘Steady, there.’ Glorfindel knelt at the elleth’s side, his voice gentle. ‘Are you hurt?’

A shake of the head.

‘Good, that’s good. Your name?’

‘Nellthel.’ 

‘I’m Findel, Nellthel, and my friends and I know about dragons; we’re on our way to help. Now. Some of our friends were visiting in Young Beech Covert, I don’t suppose you know if…’

The elleth shook her head.

‘There are flames, but I do not know…’

‘Never mind, don’t worry about that. Now, you can come with us if you like, but we’re on our way to help…’

‘No, I – oh, I don’t want to go back…’

‘Well, you don’t have to. So what I want you to do, if you can, is circle round through the woods, take the long way, find one of the southern settlements and go from there to the New Palace, yes?’

The elleth nodded.

‘But, it is… there are at least three, one huge one and others small…’

‘Ah, well, we’re used to that sort of thing. Now, there’s a group of elves on their way to safety with two of our friends looking after them; you might run into them, but if not, can you find your way alone?’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you. Thank you.’

‘Just go the long way round, remember that.’

‘The long way. I shall.’

Glorfindel rose to his feet and glanced at his friends.

‘All right. Let’s get going.’

*

Arveldir led the way now, Thandir just behind with Glorfindel at his side providing support and reassurance. Everyone so equipped checked their bows again, Erestor and Arveldir included, nocking arrows and taking turns to watch the patches of sky riding between the skeletal trees.

Another shadow soared overhead, cruising the darkness. This one was huge, bigger, broader, and it swooped down, losing altitude over the forest about half a mile away. The watching elves saw a gush of orange and yellow burst into the air, angled down into the canopy. The backlight showed the reality of creature; a dragon, massive and dark and deadly, targeting something amongst the trees. The dry undergrowth flared like tinder and caught, and spread…

‘That’s near Spring Water Elm village!’ Thandir exclaimed. ‘Oh, my friends live there…’

‘Hush now, Thandir,’ Arveldir said. ‘We know there’s more than one attacker in the night; do we wish to be calling the other down on our heads?’

‘Why not?’ Glorfindel said. ‘We are armed, we are able…’

‘We are indeed.’ The advisor shrugged. ‘Very well; let us advance, and then make a noise; it may distract the smaller one…’

‘Ones,’ a Galadhrim corrected. ‘And I don’t think we need worry about attracting attention. I see two shadows south of east, coming swiftly…’

All the elves lifted their bows, seeking the shape in the sky. Arveldir released first, the twang and slap of his bow string followed by half a dozen others; the dark patch above keened suddenly, halted in the sky, dropped in a screeling, shrieking tangle of intermittent flame to hit the trees with a smash and a crash and a burst of yellow light that died almost at once. The second shadow wheeled over the crash site and spun away.

‘Good shooting,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Anybody want to go and see if it’s really dead, then?’

‘We should take cover,’ Arveldir said. ‘The other marked us. It will be back, or it will bring the big one.’

‘Yes. Get off the trail, everyone!’ Glorfindel said. ‘Thandir – it’s up to you, but we could really use a guide…’

‘I will show you the way.’

‘Good lad, I like your courage, penneth! Come, then.’

*

‘Look there!’ Triwathon pointed up through a gap in the trees. High above and to their left in the sky, a shadow that stopped to hang in the air, to scream and plummet and light up the forest with a blast of orange flame.

‘Somebody got one!’ Celeguel shouted. ‘They can be arrow-felled in the sky, at least!’

‘If we can get close enough. I wonder whose shot it was?’ Triwathon asked. He cupped his hands around his mouth and sent out a powerful whistled sequence and waiting for an answer. ‘No. We’re too far away from the archers. Or else they are too busy. Where the shadow crashed, logistics, anyone?’

‘Between Elm and Oak village,’ Hannith said. ‘On our side. There are streams, but the forest, Commander, is too dry…’

Triwathon shook his head.

‘I know, I know, it hurts to let the forest burn! But, Hannith, if the elves are able, they will fight the fires themselves. If they are not able, they will need our help. It is not what I like, but we must press on.’

He led his company cautiously onwards to the edge of Elm Village. Through the trees they could see the central space of the village, its Heart Glade, empty and bleak. Flame crackled around the outskirts, advancing in spurts across the dry leaf litter and seeming to form an outer and inner ring. Here and there, patches of flame high in the trees beyond the clearing suggested the talans were burning; the cries and calls of elves in the woods beyond came as the villagers tried to douse the flames, but muted, as if they did not want to draw attention by making too much noise. 

Triwathon nodded to the rest of the rescue team to start working on the fires and sent out an identifier call.

An elf on the far side of the clearing emerged from cover, saw them, and broke towards them, heading straight across the open space. 

Immediately a chorus of voices from around and behind rose in protest.

‘No – do not!’

‘Stop! Do not cross the Glade, you will…’

‘Go back!’ another voice called. ‘Those of you there, do not try to cross the Glade! Save yourselves!’

Even as Triwathon beckoned to several of his company to go with him, two huge downblasts of air, the sound compressing in a whumf! displaced the flames in the trees so great was its power. The running elf panicked as dark wings folded from the sky. Even as the watching elves released their arrows, the dragon had reached with its talons and snatched the ellon up, backwinging away. Several of the shots hit and bounced off, one or two catching for a moment first in the scales of the creature, the ellon screaming as the talons tightened around him and he was borne off into the night.

‘Sweet Eru have mercy!’ Triwathon muttered.

The elves opposite dispersed into the edge of the trees as the Commander looked round, looked up. There was a huge, dark shape high overhead, flanked by smaller patches of blackness, three or four. As he watched, the large dragon opened its talons before wheeling away; a scream fractured the air and the smaller dragons converged on the falling ellon in a frenzy of tugging, ripping talons. The screams stopped.

From nearby, someone began weeping softly.

After a moment or two, the voice that had called them to go back came again.

‘Who comes? Who is it, there?’

‘Commander Triwathon of the garrison. Come, we will lead you to safety.’

‘Did you not see what just happened? It is not the first time; we lost three of our elves in the initial attack when several small wyrms stooped at once…’

‘The skies are currently clear above. We are well armed and unafraid. I am coming round to you.’ Triwathon looked behind, to the rescue team. ‘We will watch the skies, go to the villagers, do what you can to stop the flames spreading. Hug the treeline, keep undercover if you can. Prioritise the ground fires; the talain trees will try to draw away from their neighbours to avoid spreading the flames if they can. And remember – these creatures are vulnerable, and nor are they stupid; one has already died, we shot at the others; they have retreated, and presumably will continue their work elsewhere…’ Triwathon sighed. ‘There are, after all, three villages from which to choose…’

*

The Galadhrim’s successful felling of the dragonet buoyed the spirits of the Imladris elves, but soon the shadows were cruising the sky once more. Smoke thickened in the air and screams and yells so distant as to be on the edge of even their hearing made them flinch as they progressed through the forest. 

Arveldir sent out an identifier and a few desperate, scattered calls came back; a frightening mixture of warnings to keep back and pleas for aid. They heard screams from off to the left, and looking over, saw an elf being lifted into the sky by the largest dragon.

Arveldir lined up his bow, hearing the small noises of all the other archers doing the same, but he held his shot.

‘If we fire, the elf in its talons…’

Then three smaller shapes darted in and the large dragon released the elf to be caught, mid-air, by one of the younglings and borne off with the other small ones in pursuit.

Now they released; Arveldir lining up on the largest shape, the Galadhrim making the smaller creatures their targets. A hit; the big shadow stalled in the sky, veered off on a different trajectory and the rest tried to match the turn. But too late to avoid the cluster of arrows from the Galadhrim bows; one shrieked and fell even as the other followed after the bigger dragon.

‘Well shot!’ Glorfindel called.

‘How many of these things are there?’ someone muttered.

‘Two fewer than half an hour ago,’ Fin pointed out. ‘Come on. We need to hurry; there’s a chance it might drop him and…’ He broke off; it was a vain hope, and they all knew it. ‘Well shot, Arveldir.’

‘My thanks; I do not think I did much harm, however.’

‘That’s how it goes, though, with the big ones; if you can’t stop them, you can at least slow them down and that makes them easier to hit next time.’

*

Canadion drew closer against Thiriston for courage as the screams of the dead ellon faded away. The horror of the moment echoed through Triwathon’s quiet calm, and he was glad to hear the order to begin fire-fighting. Although they had expected to find the village in flames, they had not expected quite this much of a conflagration.

The outskirts of Elm village were blazing now.

The leaf litter had caught first, had kindled the undergrowth and now lapped at the feet of trees which held talain amongst their branches. The tops of several trees, too, had caught the flames, were burning like torches. Now the dragons had retreated, elves in the canopy shouted, screamed, threw water, more moving in to help those caught between fire above their talain and fire beneath.

Canadion found his voice.

‘Trees do not burn so; it is – it is usually the leaves that catch, but here…’

‘Nothing fiercer than dragon flame, penneth,’ Thiriston’s deep tones rumbled softly. ‘They say some of the old ones could make even water burn. And… bedding and such. Building wood, that’s drier than living trees.’

Hannith issued orders to her part of the rescue team.

‘Split up now, prioritise rescue work where possible; there is no hope of saving the village, just its elves,’ Hannith said. ‘All we can do is try to stop the flames spreading. And have a care to the skies!’

Of course, Canadion and Thiriston didn’t split up, not from each other; they had always worked together, faced death together, saved each other more times than either cared to remember. Moving in cautiously, a glimpse through the trees showed them the inner ring of flame around the central open space of the village trying to join up, being battered back by elves.

‘Not looking good.’ 

Thiriston sent up a call, an offer of aid, to be answered faintly off to the west, further from the heart of the village. Leading Canadion through towards the call, he ducked automatically as several dark shadows passed overhead. Some half mile into the undergrowth, a voice answered his repeated whistled signal.

‘Here, we are here.’ A figure limped out from the trees. He supported himself on a stick, was covered with burns and blood, his clothing ripped and the tunic hanging in shreds from his shoulder. ‘Have you a healer?’

‘Captains Thiriston and Canadion, volunteering with the garrison. Not healers, warriors. Field training, though. What do you need from us?’

‘Well met. We need…’ The one who had spoken broke off. ‘In truth, I do not know what we need. I am Arastor, an elder here. My leg is injured, broken, I think; I fell from… I was… my friend is badly hurt, and my child… my child, I do not know where she is, we sent them to hide near the water tanks, the children. And my wife is dead… we need a way for these dragons to be killed, safe passage for our people, for the flames to stop killing our trees…’

‘Safe passage. That’ll be us, then.’ Thiriston spoke with bluff confidence. ‘Dragon killing and fire-fighting – the garrison guard and the other rescue teams, already working on it. We’ll lead you back to the village, the guard. Patch you up a bit if…’

‘No! No, I cannot leave my wife!’

‘Is your lady here?’ Canadion asked softly. 

The ellon nodded.

‘She… We heard the alarm, there were flames, we went to gather in the Heart Glade… the dragons fell on us and caught us up, me, my wife, my friend, and… it was…’ He shook his head, helpless. ‘The large one watched as the smaller wyrms caught us, one had her, my wife, but dropped her amongst the trees. I fought free – it was a smaller dragon had grabbed me - and I fell, but I was able to get to her, drag her further under cover, but… but…’

‘May I see her?’ Canadion asked; Thiriston had turned his head away, throat convulsing – he did not deal well with people dead of dragons, it was too much a reminder. ‘Perhaps one of us could carry her for you, and we can bring her with us to the village or the New Palace.’

But as soon as he saw the dead elleth, he knew it would not work; her body had been too badly torn apart and to try to move her, without a bier, would simply cause her remains to fall apart which would cause too much distress.

‘I am sorry, Master, for your lady’s loss. You are right; she should rest here a little while. But your injuries, and your friend, those we can attend to.’

The friend – an ellon who murmured ‘Landaer’ when asked his name – was propped against a tree. Three great gashes across his side, his singed hair and burned face all told the same story that they had already heard; snatched by a small dragon and then dropped, or escaped. It did not take proper Healer training to see that he was far beyond saving.

Canadion took his undamaged hand and patted it.

‘I am Canadion,’ he said. ‘And if you like, I will stay with you, for a bit.’

‘Just until the other elf comes? He will be here soon’

Canadion nodded.

‘Yes, until the other elf gets here.’

He looked up at Thiriston, shook his head slightly. The big elf sighed and turned to Arastor.

‘Not sure I can do much for that leg,’ he said. ‘Needs splinting if it’s broken, a proper healer to make sure it goes back right. But I can bind up that shoulder for you. Come and sit down here. No, Canadion will stay with your wife and friend, it’s fine. Come away.’

Canadion smiled and reached out to smooth Landaer’s hair, what was left of it. 

‘Tell me all about yourself, Landaer,’ he said. ‘Were you always a talan elf? Or were you ever in the Old Palace?’

‘The forest, always the forest, it’s beautiful… don’t like rock around me. Will there be rock, do you think, in the Halls of Waiting?’

‘In the Halls?’ Canadion settled next to the dying ellon. ‘Oh, I know about the Halls. My friend Glorfindel – well, he is not my special friend, of course, but he travelled with us once – he died, and was with Lord Námo, and then was sent back again. He says it’s nice, considering. The Halls are stone, not rock, but there are windows and pleasant prospects, and different places there, he said there were Silvans. And, he says, Lord Námo is always concerned that his charges are content…’

He broke off. There was a shadow amongst the trees darker than any shadow had a right to be. Canadion had never been so terribly close to dying that he was able to see Lord Námo when he came to collect the fëar of dying elves, but he recognised his presence nonetheless.

‘I am sure you will like it there, Landaer. Be at peace,’ he finished. 

Landaer sighed, an odd, gurgling sound, and his weight shifted against Canadion, heavy, and then light, as if a burden had been taken away. The ellon’s eyes were empty and he looked into a distance where only he could see.

Canadion swallowed. Elves were not supposed to die… and here were two of them, dead, and…

Suddenly, he needed to be with Thiriston.

*

Triwathon set half his warriors to assisting with firefighting and made his way around the glade to where the surviving villagers were mostly clustered.

‘Is there an elder here?’ he asked.

‘Taranith.’ An elleth came forward. ‘My brother Arastor is the other, but he… oh, he was one of the three… and we do not know what… these dragons… why… why torment us like this? Why not just attack, why…?’’

Triwathon swallowed. In all his training he had been taught, dragons do not use their flame to kill, not if they can help it. To harry and chase, to corral their prey, yes. And sometimes to play… it was not a pleasant thought, that was what had happened to his best friend, chased and tormented by a dragon. The Battle of the Three Dragons, youngsters – older than these here, still refining their hunting methods…

…something clicked.

There was only one dragon of any size here, the others probably its offspring... some predators, he knew, would take live prey back for the young to kill, to practice hunting… perhaps this was what had happened here, the young had been making their first kills, and the dragon had been helping, grabbing up an elf to drop for the young to fight over and…

He dragged his mind away from the mental images that crowded in and tried to talk to Taranith.

‘Even the largest creature here is nowhere as huge as Smaug, for example; but still, it needs open spaces, glades, clearings – such breaks as were made in the fires following the Battle Under the Trees; if you keep under cover, keep within the forest’s compass, you cannot be snatched so readily,’ he said. ‘I know; it is the dark of the year, the trees have little foliage to hide you from sharp eyes; but the young can be brought down by archers; we saw one fall.’

‘And that helps us how, Commander?’ Taranith asked, her voice as bitter as the smoke-filled air. ‘We have one dead, three lost, probably dead… our elflings are cowering near the water butts where we would hide them, if we must…’

‘It helps because you know I understand what is going on here,’ Triwathon said. ‘I, personally, have survived four dragons and many of those with me likewise.’

‘Triwathon…’ Elrohir pushed forward, impatient. ‘The other villages… my honour-sister…’

‘Yes, I know.’ The Commander sighed. ‘Taranith, have you had news of the other villages?’ 

‘Signals from Oak; nothing from beyond…’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Elrohir asked, hope in his voice.

‘Smoke on the wind,’ Taranith said abruptly. A far – a very far, distant scream made her shudder and glance up. Through the trees, it looked as if a large shadow dropped a smaller one, a third crossed its path to catch. ‘And it is in that direction. I am sorry.’

‘Get ready to leave, Elder Taranith,’ Triwathon said. ‘Hurry; gather your people, as many as you can. We are starting to make headway with the ground fires, but there are too few of us to fight the talan fires. One of my captains will escort you under guard to the palace.’

‘But this is our home…’

‘I know. I am sorry; you have worked hard to build here, but there are two other townlets in danger and I cannot save your homes without ordering all my warriors to the task and that risks other lives.’

‘Commander Triwathon, you cannot just order us around like…’

‘I can. Under these circumstances, I can order you to do anything I see fit for your safety. Now, gather your people. Captain Celeguel, I want you to scout the perimeter, make sure nobody is left behind; Thiriston and Canadion are somewhere on the outskirts. Captain Pengnir, you’re now on escort duty. You and this half of the company, get the villagers safely home. Give them five minutes to muster, keep under cover.’

‘Yes, Commander. Elder Taranith, where’s the muster-point?’

‘Why, the Heart Glade, of course…’

‘Where it is not safe to gather, what contingency have you?’

‘We have never needed…’

Triwathon left Pengnir arguing and called Rusdir.

‘I need to get to Oak; if I give you half the company, will you and Elrohir follow them to Beech to seek your kin under Hannith’s command?’

‘Yes, Commander. Thank you.’

‘Hannith, do as we have here, get as many out as possible.’

‘Yes, sir.’

*

Once Canadion and Thiriston had done what they could to staunch the wounds on Arastor’s shoulder, Thiriston went to where the bodies lay to tidy them. He took off his cloak and folded it around the body of the elleth, tried to arrange Landaer more comfortably, not that it mattered, except that it did, it always mattered; how you treated those who died defined how you lived, really.

He returned to his fëa-mate to find Canadion’s mouth set in a determined expression and Arastor apparently oblivious of the danger he was in.

‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘I was explaining to Arastor that it would be better for him not to walk on that damaged leg,’ Canadion began. ‘And suggested one of us carry him while the other watch the skies.’

‘And I do not have issue with that,’ Arastor said. ‘It is undignified, and we hardly know each other, but I recognise I would slow you down too much otherwise. It is that the ellon said he would do the carrying while he is obviously not as strong as you, Captain…’

‘To be fair, they say there’s not many are, Master Elder. And I’ll admit he may be a better shot. But he’s stronger than many and would bear you with ease. He’s also my husband, so don’t fear him taking inappropriate liberties.’

‘Oh, I did not mean…’

‘But your leg is broken, if you walk on it, you’ll do more damage. Not to mention the pain of it. So what will you do, let Canadion bear you, or hop? Or stay here and hope that someone else happens by sooner or later?’

‘Could you not…? A stretcher…?’

‘And who will look skywards?’ Canadion asked. ‘Who will shoot down the dragons, or at least hold them off, if we are both carrying you? No, it is be borne, or hop along swiftly, or stay here, I am sorry. There is no other safe choice. I will not drop you, I promise.’

‘Very well, then. By which… I am grateful.’

‘Yes, you keep trying and you will sound it, perhaps.’ Canadion spoke briskly, deliberately taking the focus of Arastor’s attention to stop him thinking about his dead wife and dead friend; he did not know if it would help, not really, but it was a technique he and Thiriston had used to get civilians off a battlefield many times in the past. ‘Now, arm around my shoulder… that is it… and…’

He lifted Arastor and found his balance, nodding to Thiriston.

‘Which way?’

‘Let’s start with ‘away’ generally, shall we?’


	6. Beech Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rusdir and Elrohir reach Beech Village...

Elrohir found it a grim march through the smoke-dark forest towards Beech Village. Constrained to follow Hannith’s command, he chafed at every delay, every pause, more for Rusdir’s sake than his own. His spouse had a hard, dead look to his eyes, as if he was already mourning the last of his kin. Unable to bear it, Roh clasped his shoulder briefly.

‘It might not be as bad as you think, Rus.’

‘No. But it could be. It might even be worse.’

The trees here were thin, witness to depredations of the Battle Under the Trees, and three times dark shadows coasted and swirled above them in the night, causing the group to scatter into the edges of the woods. Once, Rusdir unslung his bow, took aim, and fired upwards. A shriek, and a smaller shadow twisted and writhed, but did not fall.

‘Everyone! Hold your fire!’ Hannith ordered loudly, coming to Rusdir’s side where she spoke as quietly as she could but with authority in her tone. ‘Rusdir, I understand, I do, but you are under my command and I gave no order to attack…’

‘My family…’

‘And are you the only one with family, mellon-nin?’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘It was well hit, however. Save your arrows, though. Everyone…’ She lifted her voice again. ‘Hurry now, onwards to Beech Village.’

*

It was slow going with Arastor in his arms, Canadion admitted to himself. They probably would get on faster were Thiriston carrying the injured elder. But that would mean Thiriston couldn’t draw his bow, and although Canadion was considered the better shot, with Thiriston’s history of dragons, it wasn’t fair to expect him to give up control, to feel himself helpless if there were an attack, even if they weren’t that far away from the village. 

Well, from the fires around the village.

Besides, Thiriston would probably just drop Arastor in order to reach his weapons, and that would never do.

Anyway, Canadion was more than happy to place his trust in Thiriston’s skill.

They had managed about half a mile or so before Thiriston saw the sag of Canadion’s shoulders and called a halt.

‘Need to make sure that dressing’s holding,’ he said. ‘Master Arastor, you can sit on that tree trunk, I think, and keep the weight off your leg a bit.’

‘Maybe you should splint it,’ the elder replied. ‘Then if I need to put my weight down, I know I will not do too much harm.’

‘It will hurt,’ Canadion warned him, perching next to him on the fallen trunk. ‘We are not healers. Of course, it already probably hurts…’

‘Could try something,’ Thiriston said with a glance. ‘You know, that old thing Glorfindel taught us. The Námo special.’ 

‘Captain,’ Arastor protested, ‘I am not sure I like you invoking that name at this moment…’

‘Just relax.’ Thiriston laid his hand on Arastor’s shoulder from behind and squeezed gently. There was a sort of a sigh and the elder sagged back, a happy smile on his face. ‘There we are, should be able to manage now. Canadion, can you steady him a bit and I’ll do the pulling?’

Lying Arastor out along the length of the tree trunk, Canadion bracing his shoulders, Thiriston took hold of the knee and ankle of the elder’s damaged leg. With his mouth set in a grim line of concentration, he pulled against the leg and it slid and twisted with strange little sounds until it looked much more aligned. Arastor giggled.

‘Tickles,’ he said.

‘Well, don’t you worry about that, it will not tickle for long,’ Canadion assured him. ‘You just rest there while Thiriston splints you up.’

A stout branch lashed on the outside of Arastor’s broken leg provided stability and support and must have been of some help, but Thiriston shook his head. 

‘Make it harder for you to carry him, but he’ll be able to stand a bit if we both have to do any shooting.’

‘I am sure it will be better for him this way. But he will be giddy and sleepy for another twenty minutes at least…’

‘I know. Gives you chance for a rest, though.’

Canadion sighed.

‘I should not need it, but the forest is so heavy with all that is happening it exhausts me with its distress…’

Thiriston nodded and walked a few paces towards the trail. Looking up into the canopy, he sent out an identifier call.

‘Hannith might be wondering where we’ve got to. Triwathon might be in earshot. Could do with some orders…’

After a few minutes there was a distant, faint rising and falling whistle, a pause, a repeat.

‘Do you recognise…?’

‘I think so, I think that’s Celeguel.’ Canadion sent out his own signal and the response came from closer. Presently the Captain came through the brush, alone, glancing behind her.

‘Well met, mellyn-nin!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who have you here?’

‘Village elder, broken leg, Námo special.’ Thiriston shrugged. ‘He should be making sense again soon. Well. As much as before.’

‘Ai, it has been terrible, has it not? Wait for me, I will be but a moment.’ She darted back into the cover and returned a few moments later leading a little cluster of elflings. ‘These are my friends, Canadion and Thiriston,’ she said. ‘Captains, here are Alphel and Harnion and Talvon. Harnion is injured; I promised I would take them to safety.’ She glanced over her shoulder back into the forest. ‘Commander Triwathon sent me to patrol the outskirts and ensure nobody was left behind, and I found these brave souls trying to get back to their naneths… I have almost completed my circuit but no parents have been seen…’

‘We saw no-one else,’ Canadion said. ‘Well. There are two in the forest, some half mile or so behind us, but from what we know of them, they did not have elflings with them. And now Lord Námo has them in his keeping, the elder’s wife and his friend…’

‘Ai! It is a sad night…’

‘If your friends would like to stay with us, we can see them to safety,’ Canadion went on. ‘It might be easier for you, do you think?’

‘It would, Canadion, if you and Thiriston do not mind… what is more, the… the majority of incidents…’ she paused to make sure they gathered her meaning, that she was paraphrasing to protect the little ones before continuing. ‘They have taken place around in open spaces, particularly the Heart Glade here at Elm; it is reasonable to assume other Heart Glades are as tempting… my point is, the denser forest, the trails back to the New Palace, will be less risky…’

‘Was thinking, no point struggling back to meet up with the Commander, not with Arastor here, if you can pass word what we’re doing. Best we head back to the New Palace. Gladly take your youngsters, always glad to help an elfling,’ Thiriston said with a smile. ‘Come and sit, younglings. Got a flask of water here, if you’re thirsty?’

‘Thank you,’ Celeguel said as Thiriston took charge of the little ones. ‘Keep sending out your calls; Commander Triwathon has started evacuating the village – the people are reluctant to leave and he has had to split the company to send guards to take them back… your paths may converge, possibly. There are rumours of other elves in the woods tonight, but it is all vague… I must go, there will be more for me to do I am sure…’

*

The smoke thickened and stung noses and eyes as the company approached Beech Village. Rusdir shook his head as he took in the devastation even on the furthest outskirts.

Ahead, Hannith sent up an identifier. After a wait that seemed too long, an answer came back, the danger sequence.

‘Really?’ Roh muttered. ‘Danger? Who would have thought…?’

‘Quiet, back there!’ Hannith signalled again, waved her command forward. ‘Slowly, now; keep to cover…’

More signals, hurried, the danger sequence. Ahead, the sky was clear and Hannith dropped to one knee.

‘Nock arrows, aim high…’

A flurry of shadows converging, all of a size, wheeling overhead with harsh cries. 

‘Loose your shots!’

The hiss and rush of arrows flying upwards. In the storm of shafts the shadows writhed. Two lost control of the air, tumbled down to crash separately in the forest; the third fled and a ghost of a cheer went up from ahead.

‘Come,’ Hannith ordered. ‘To the village, and hurry.’

*

‘I don’t understand,’ Lumormen said, looking upwards where the shadows were circling. ‘We killed one, but there are more, not fewer dragons in the sky.’

‘My guess is it’s an entire brood. Probably pushed out from their habitat before the young have learned to fend for themselves,’ Glorfindel said. ‘It seems to me that the big one is a parent – probably the dam – and is giving them an emergency lesson in hunting. Sometimes when there’s a lot of young, the parent will split the brood into two or three so if one group runs into trouble, the others have a better chance of survival.’

‘I see,’ Lumormen said. ‘But what possible trouble could they run into? Who could harm a dragon?’

‘Hadn’t you noticed? Us.’ Glorfindel narrowed his eyes as he contemplated the shapes overhead. ‘And I would guess there’s been more than one dragonet killed tonight, and this is all that’s left; they’ve regrouped…’

‘All? There are three – no, four small ones and then the parent…’

Arveldir lined up his bow and drew back his arm; the circling dragons were losing altitude now and heading towards their position. He waited, drew in a breath, held it…

…released…

The arrow flew hard and hissing through the sky to land in the belly of one of the juveniles. It convulsed in the sky and made more of a target of itself so that three singing Lothlórien bows shot their arrows home with deadly accuracy and the dragonet fell.

‘Three,’ Glorfindel remarked. ‘We’d better get off the trail a little. I think we annoyed the mother.’

But after circling several times, the dam wheeled away, drawing her remaining three offspring behind her; one seemed awkward in the air, as if injured.

‘Excellent. Come on, we’d better get going again. What do you think now, Arveldir? Head towards the villages, still?’

‘I am anxious lest too long has passed, now, for us to be much use there.’ Arveldir said after considering the matter. ‘We should send out our calls, and try to make clear the trails towards the palace for any other refugees, try to fight these dragons if we can draw them near enough. The large one will take more weaponry than we have, I think, but we can certainly attack the young.’

‘I don’t suppose anyone else here is thinking, poor things?’ Glorfindel asked. ‘Because if so, well, I know. Hard to kill something that’s only trying to survive. But… if we don’t get them, they’ll get us.’

*

Closing on the village, Hannith lifted a hand to call another halt, point up and across. ‘Did you see?’ she asked. ‘Far off, but there were five shapes. Now there are four. That has to be good news; other elves are killing dragons tonight and I do not think it was Commander Triwathon’s elves, it was the wrong place in the sky. Now. Advance.’

The village was burning. Around the Heart Glade, the undergrowth smoked and sparked, mostly burned out. Overhead, trees crackled and the talain flamed; it was heart-breaking and Elrohir passed through after Hannith with his heart heavy; there was no need to look at his spouse to feel Rusdir’s fear and horror of what they might find.

At the far side of the Heart Glade, off down a side trail, they saw the first of the villagers, an elleth beckoning and indicating the edges of the approach. Hannith lifted a hand.

‘Under cover, head across. Do not stray into clear space.’ She scanned the area and sighed. ‘And try not to look.’

Roh wondered what she meant, but instead took charge of his spouse, doing all he could to shield Rusdir’s view until they joined up with the village elleth who almost pulled Hannith after her, speaking softly and furiously.

‘We are so helpless, it is not fair, but… oh, Captain… come, we are with the children near the water tanks, so that we could put them in if we had to… so we dared not use the water to fight the fires… I am sure it was the right thing, but…’

‘Yes; you can always rebuild, but lives lost are terrible. How many?’

The elleth shook her head. ‘Several, for certain. I saw…. Oh, Captain! Is that Captain Rusdir? Rusdir, do you remember me, do you recall Edemes?’

‘Yes, it’s me.’ Rusdir came forward. ‘Mistress Edemes, of course. I… you must know… My family…?’

Edemes nodded emphatically. 

‘Maludor and Calemirdor are here, safe. They have had a little scare, well, have not we all…? Dolon, will take Captain Rusdir to the elflings.’ There was something about the attempted gentleness of tone that alerted Elrohir that all might not be well. ‘And I am glad you are here for them, for… for their mother… we…’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘We remember Rhoscthel…’

‘What? No, it cannot… you must be…’

‘I am sorry. We are all sorry. She was not the only one, nor the only mother…’

Elrohir came forward, touched Rusdir lightly on the shoulder.

‘Do not, Roh!’ Rusdir said, flinching away. ‘Do not tell me I have to be strong for her sons, I know I have to, but I want to know how…’

‘I was only going to say, shall I take charge of them for a few minutes while you hear the full story? I… Rus, my sister’s going to die one day, forever, and my mother sailed, I have a bit of an idea how this hurts… I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I remember Rhoscthel. How welcoming she was of me, a Noldo, a peredhel, how she saw that I loved you. How she honoured us both for that.’

Rusdir took a breath and stiffened his shoulders, reminding Elrohir of his husband’s former service in the guard; the military bearing helped him keep control.

‘Thank you, Elrohir. You are right, the how will keep. Yes, of course the boys will remember you. Master Dolon, my husband Elrohir will go to my nephews with you… Ai, Edemes…! We arrived yesterday at the New Palace and allowed ourselves to be talked into staying for the night… if we had not…’

‘Then you might have died also,’ Edemes said. ‘Dolon, take Master Elrohir to the younglings now.’

*

A cluster of half a dozen elflings of various ages, sizes, and states of grime and minor injury were huddled together under the care of several adults. Two elves with nocked arrows watched the skies, the third wiped faces and whispered kind words. As Elrohir approached, two of the elflings jumped up only to be hushed and quietened.

‘Uncle Roh, uncle Roh, but it is him! Where is Uncle Rus?’

Roh dropped to his knees and opened his arms to allow both elflings to approach.

‘Come for a hug, younglings! Your uncle is talking to Mistress Edemes. He won’t be long.’

‘Is it about the firebirds?’ Maludor asked.

‘Yes, we thought they were pretty, but they did bad things to our house…’ Calemirdor put in.

‘And went away again.’

‘With Nana.’

‘It was scary. When will she be back?’

Elrohir shook his head.

‘Well, I do not know, I have only just got here, but…’

‘The others say she will not be long. And that there are other naneths and adas gone to see the firebirds, so… can you tell her to hurry?’

‘I don’t know your signals, you know I am just a silly Noldo uncle, I am not a clever Silvan… I don’t know how to call her…’

One of the adults interrupted.

‘We do not know when the nanas and adas are coming back, but we know they love all their elflings very much and will hurry after us as fast as they can… we just…’ she paused and her voice became more adult in tone. ‘We are not certain where we should go or what to do about the village.’

‘Captain Hannith has orders from Commander Triwathon,’ Elrohir said. ‘Not to sound threatening, but other villagers have resisted the Commander’s orders to leave, even with armed escort, and Hannith is told to enforce his commands however she must.’

‘I can understand… we fought hard for permission to live here, we built our own homes and… but there is nothing here we can save, except each other. Yet it is home.’

Edemes came through the undergrowth.

‘Well said,’ she agreed with a nod. And that is what we are going to do, leave the village. Captain Hannith and her troop will escort us to the New Palace with the elflings. Any who refuse to come…’ She sighed. ‘I do not know, there are some arguing that once the elflings are safe, they can use the water to fight the fires, but the captain is arguing it is not safe…’

Roh hugged his honour-nephews.

‘I am just going to talk to the captain over there,’ he said. ‘Stay and be good, just for a little.’

When he and Edemes rejoined the villagers, the argument was in full spate.

‘You’ve seen what the dragons can do,’ Hannith was saying. ‘I don’t know if you also know that people are fighting them, there are fewer, they can be killed. My orders are to get you to the New Palace.’

‘But our homes…’

‘I know. Do you want to add to the list of dead? There are warriors and rescue teams in the woods already, let them work.’

‘Take the elflings and those who are injured, let us fight for our homes…’

‘If you come willingly, I can leave some of my troop here to fight the fires. If you are not willing, then you will be bound and brought and the elves who could have stayed to save your village will be too busy carrying you to fight the flames!’ Hannith ended with an almost shout. ‘And every moment you waste arguing is a moment when we could be moving!’

‘Edemes, what do you think?’ someone asked.

‘I am the only elder left amongst you,’ she said. ‘And I do not say this lightly. But yes, we will leave, we will bring our elflings, and ourselves, to safety.’

‘But we need to wait for…’

‘Are there any amongst you who are not injured?’ she asked. ‘Who feel strong enough to fight fires?’

Two or three came forward, hesitantly; it seemed that when it came to it, the idea of leaving the group was less appealing.

‘Captain Hannith, if you will leave some of your company here in case any of our missing people return, and to try to save our trees, we will be grateful. These brave individuals will stay and try to fight the fires from the stored water. But they will not get in your way, and they will follow orders of whomever you leave in charge. The rest of us will go with you and follow your instructions to the letter.’ She lifted her chin and stared down the protesters. ‘And if anyone tries to argue, I will shoot them myself.’

*

‘So, Alphel, I do not have enough hands free, I am afraid, for I have to help Master Elder Arastor who was very brave and who has a sore leg. But here is my belt, and you can hold on to the loose end, there, and we will not get separated. Is that good?’

Alphel nodded. ‘Lost is not good, but when there are dragons, it is worse.’

‘Yes, indeed. But my husband and I have met dragons before, and you see, we are still here to tell the tale. Do not you worry. Harnion, is your leg hurting?’

The elfling nodded.

‘Well, I think I can give you a pickaback, if you want,’ Canadion said. ‘But I will need to rearrange my bow and quiver so I can get to them… there, I think that will do. Thiriston, if you can help Master Elder Arastor and little Talvon…’

‘Can manage that, I think.’ Thiriston unslung his own bow and moved his quiver to his hip. ‘Well, penneth, climb on. Carry you for a bit, then it’ll be Alphel’s turn, all right? Good. Elder Arastor? Do you think you can get up now, a bit? Lean on me, that’s it, mind the elfling… if you can keep your foot lifted, just hop… there, that’ll do… slow and steady…’

It was indeed slow and steady, but they were moving, at least. Knowing that Triwathon was not far away, that there were other elves in the wood armed and prepared to fight was some comfort, too. Even so, it felt that there was a long way to go and Canadion had a feeling the elflings would struggle, even with Thiriston and himself carrying. But for now, the trees were thick overhead and at least they were headed in the right direction – away from trouble and towards the sanctuary of the Old Palace.


	7. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon hears an unexpected identification call in the forest...

Triwathon sighed, wiping the back of his hand across his face as he surveyed the latest ruin from the fringes of Oak Village. 

Little patches of spurting flame in the undergrowth, blossoms of orange fire in the tree tops where here and there a talan had caught… the now-familiar tale of dragons swooping over the Heart Glade to snatch fleeing elves and toss them, one to another, like a hawk passing its kill to its mate in the sky… it was a horrible thought.

But then, it had been a horrible night. Fires and tales of villagers ripped apart in the air by dragonets, elves lost and panicking in the forest… and yet even now the survivors did not want to leave, and he was losing patience; the rescue teams were already fully occupied in the woods, and of the three score warriors he had set out with, once he had provided these elves with a guard he would be left with ten at his back, the rest having been sent off as escorts, or put on guard around the villages while the flames were brought under control… 

An elder broke free of the gathered villagers, gesticulating fiercely towards the burning talain.

‘And what are you going to do about our homes?’ he demanded. ‘This should never have happened!’

‘No, you are right, it should not,’ Triwathon called back, approaching and trying to control his building anger, borne out of the horrors he had witnessed and the truth of the elder’s words… they should not have built this far out, they should not have ignored our suggestions for stationing a guard in the villages, should not have been so fierce in their insistence that nothing could go wrong, not when they had been told, had been warned… ‘But had you listened just for one moment to…’

He broke off, shaking his head.

‘Well, it is too late for that, now. Meanwhile, you complain you lacked protection, and yet now we offer it, you insist you will not head to safety. What do you expect me to do?’

‘Your job…’

‘My job, Elder, is the protection of the people of the New Palace, not its satellite villages. We looked at the safety issues in great detail and at every touch and turn you argued against my suggestions. I wish I dared tell you, stay and die, but although you are not my job, you are my responsibility…’

He sighed, suddenly exhausted by all this.

‘If you will go with the escort, I can leave two of my troop to combat the flames and…’

‘Two? Two? That is not enough…!’

In truth, a dozen would not be enough, but he did not have that many elves available… and those he did have should be fighting dragons, not escorting scared villagers or bullying frightened people into doing what he told them…

‘I know, but I do not have the resources…’

‘Where are your guard, then? You have four score warriors in your garrison, I do not see them…’

‘A troop to hold the New Palace, to protect elves on the near trails… the rest came with me, I have left them fighting the fires around the villages, escorting survivors – and by the time I leave a protective detail with you, I will have but a handful of archers to pit against the dragons which should be my first…’

He broke off to listen to the sounds of the forest; a signifier from the direction of Beech, and he whistled back his own call to have Hannith’s response from near at hand. At the same time, further off and in the other direction, he thought he heard an echo of another identification signal.

Sending out a response call, he moved away from the elves, ignoring the mutters from the elder, and went a little way into the forest towards Hannith’s signal. Moments passed, and the elleth emerged from the trees, bringing a black-haired elf with her.

‘Hannith, well done. And Elrohir.’ Triwathon stepped forward to claps arms with the Noldo. ‘What news? How are… things?’

Elrohir shook his head. ‘She’s dead, Rhos… we remember Rhoscthel,’ he amended, remembering in time the traditional forming of the news. ‘The boys are safe with Rus.’

‘Thank the Valar for that!’

‘Yes, indeed, Rusdir does not know what to do with the news, of course. It is beyond awful.’

‘Hannith, your report?’

‘I left as many as I dared to fight the flames – there were tanks of water available – including two civilians, at Elder Edemes’ suggestion; Parvon stayed to help, saying that if the villagers were to argue, then he was there as a representative of the Palace Office.’

Triwathon cursed under his breath; in all the confusion, he had not even realised his advisor had gone with Hannith’s team. She smiled and shook her head.

‘Do not worry, Commander, he has been keeping his eye in, he’s as good a shot as any of us and better than most.’

‘Thank you, Hannith; yes, I know he is capable, but what I – what the New Palace would do without him, especially now…’

‘The dragons are fewer, at least; there have been several shot and so perhaps they will withdraw…’

Triwathon shook his head. ‘I think it depends how hungry they are,’ he said. ‘Hannith, once again there are protests, people even now do not wish to leave.’

‘We had to threaten to bind the villagers of Beech before we came to a compromise,’ she said. ‘But now they have left, they seem to not wish to return.’

‘You must get back to them,’ Triwathon said. ‘Wait for a few moments. Elrohir, would you come with me?’

‘I can’t leave Rus for long…’

‘I know.’

Triwathon led the way back to the huddle of survivors.

‘This is Elrohir, married to Rusdir who was one of my captains. They have just come from Beech Village.’

‘I remember Rhoscthel,’ Elrohir said. ‘And there are others. No doubt you, too, have losses. But would you add your own names to the list? These dragons – they are unpredictable, but their leader is clever. It drives with its flame so that you are forced into open ground where it can snatch you. Do you know, have you seen what happens then? I am told my honour-sister’s will not be the only empty shroud to receive rites…’

A murmur at this.

‘These are our homes,’ someone, an elleth, said. ‘You are not Silvan, you cannot know how close we are to our trees…’

‘I am not Silvan, no; I am just married to a Silvan hero of the Battle Under the Trees. And he is mourning his honour-sister, her children are without other kin. If not your own lives, think of those you love who will be left to mourn you…’

From the north, a signal, clear and unexpected, and Triwathon suddenly lost interest in the discussion.

‘Very well, there is no time. Elrohir, please lead the way back to your company, ask Hannith to escort these people. Company, escort these good people to Hannith. Prod them if you must, carry them if you have to. Provide reinforcements, whatever Hannith needs. Any others, come back and try to contain the fires. Listen for my call, I am heading towards the signal we just heard. Elrohir, be well.’

And with that he turned away from the village and loped off through the undergrowth in the direction of the signal; he knew the call, knew the elf to whom it belonged, although the thought of him, here, and who might be with him… 

He paused to send out his own identifier and the answer came back, distant still, but clear and undoubted.

Arveldir was somewhere in the forest ahead. With companions.

As he ran he wondered, who was with his old friend, were they all safe and well? What had brought them, why? Could it be, was… was Glorfindel in the forest tonight…? Triwathon hardly knew if he wanted it to be so or not; to see his dear iphant again would be wonderful, but to see him in such circumstances, the forest at its most dangerous… 

Another signal from off to his right caused him to halt: Parvon. In its own way, the call was just as welcome and he called again, waiting until the forest stirred and his advisor emerged from it, his soft, tawny hair dark with soot, all of him dirty and grimy and scored with scratches and scrapes, but essentially unharmed. And yet, at the thought of who might be with Arveldir, Triwathon could have wished Parvon had not found him…

Even so, as the New Palace’s advisor approached, the Commander realised he was actually far more relieved to see him than he was annoyed to be interrupted on his way to the reunion.

‘Parvon, you are safe and well? What news?’

‘We have done all the firefighting we can; most of the talan fires are under control but the civilians are just too weary to keep working. I sent them back under escort on Hannith’s trail. We came under attack from the skies and shot down a small dragonet, we drove off the big one which retreated with two smaller ones behind; it has been most distressing, Commander, the larger one has been grabbing elves and dropping them in the sky for the smaller ones to catch…’

‘I have the same tale, it is terrible indeed. Come; I am responding to Arveldir’s signal, did you hear it?’

‘I did indeed; it is relief to me to know he is here; his advice will be most welcome.’

‘Parvon… yes, it will be hard, sorting all this out, will it not? And Arveldir is wise above all else. But do not forget; you are the Chief Advisor for the New Palace and I have every faith in you.’

*

At the shrill song of the response to his call, Arveldir lifted his head.

‘It is Triwathon,’ he said. ‘He is on his way to join us.’

‘That is excellent news!’ Erestor said. 

‘Yes, indeed, he will know more of what is going on, and…’ Arveldir broke off, glancing at Glorfindel. The Balrog-Slayer was trying to look unconcerned. ‘Glorfindel? Commander Triwathon is on his way.’

‘Yes, I heard. It’ll be nice to see him.’ Glorfindel shrugged and failed to prevent a beaming smile from finding his face. He wasn’t fooling anyone, and he knew it. ‘All right, yes, I’ll be very glad to see him again. But this is a hard night for him, he won’t have time for the pleasantries, so don’t anyone be minding if he seems a bit… preoccupied. Do you hear? And I’m fine.’

‘Of course you are, Glorfindel.’ Erestor squeezed his shoulder. ‘But in case you are not… well, do not worry about it.’

Soon the rustle of the undergrowth announced a new arrival, and Triwathon emerged from the trees. 

‘Well met!’ he called out, and as if it was the most natural, unthinking thing in the world, ran to greet them, throwing his arms around Glorfindel in a rather-more-than-friendly hug. ‘Ai! Glorfindel, I did not think to see you here unannounced! But welcome, and come, tell me? What brings you to my forest in such order? Arveldir, Erestor, greetings. Galadhrim, be welcome, I am Commander Triwathon of the New Palace garrison and I am afraid we are having a little difficulty with the local wildlife…’

‘Hardly local,’ Arveldir said with a smile, stepping forward to clasp arms with the Commander once he had stepped away from Glorfindel. ‘We had no native dragons in my day, at least. In fact, it is your dragons that brings us…’

‘Oh? How so?’

‘I dreamed them,’ Glorfindel said. ‘That is, our old friend Lord Námo came and told me about them. And Elladan had a dream of Elrohir that left him shaking. So we thought we’d have a little ride out, come visit for Yule, sort of thing… Oh, and there’s a couple of our friendly Galadhrim leading a group of villagers back to safety, and this is Thandir who’s been very helpful and courageous getting us through the forest. It’s been a bit rough on him, though. Brave lad.’

‘Thandir, yes, I know your people. Well met, indeed. You will be glad to know I saw your parents not an hour since, they are safe, headed for the palace.’

‘Commander, thank you.’

Now that the first flurry of greetings were done, Parvon came more quietly out from cover and bowed to Arveldir.

‘It is good to see you, Lord Arveldir, my friend. Master Erestor, be welcome.’

‘Master Parvon.’ The words of formal welcome should have seemed out of place, stiff and stilted, but Arveldir understood; it was how the King’s Office was, always formal, always aware that its elves represented the king himself. ‘It is good to see you, also. What news? Come, take a few moments; you look exhausted.’

‘Fighting fires and fighting dragons will do that to you, of course.’

‘Several small ones have been killed,’ Arveldir said. ‘So there are fewer now. We were trying to get to the villages…’

‘Do not try,’ Triwathon said. ‘I and my company have come from thence. All that can be done has been attended to and now I am trying simply to ensure everyone gets to the safety of the palace until we can destroy the rest of this brood. It looks like an entire nest has descended upon us…’

‘That’s what Glorfindel said,’ Arveldir agreed. ‘So, Commander; we are at your disposal. Where would you have us serve?’

From off to the left a cry went up, a panicked, anxious wail, an elfling’s cry, bringing everyone instantly alert.

‘Over there seems like a good place to start,’ Triwathon said. ‘Come.’

Signals through the forest as they ran; Amathel, calling for aid, the voice of the elfling again, and they came upon her in a clearing standing guard over the child, arrow ready in her fist; her other arm tucked awkwardly into her jerkin, her bow at her feet.

‘Commander, keep to cover, there are three wyrms,’ she shouted. ‘They have been circling and hiding and circling again; I cannot fire and my knives are spent…’

‘They are not here now, Amathel.’

‘I know, it is what they have been doing, hiding and then attacking…’

Triwathon nocked an arrow and Arveldir followed suit. With two of the Galadhrim, they eased into the clearing and encircled Amathel and the elfling, backing away to the edge of cover.

‘There; we have you,’ Triwathon said. ‘Now, we…’

‘Ware dragon!’ one of the Galadhrim shouted; flame spurted amongst the leaf litter, pushing the rest of the Imladris party out towards the clearing. Similar bouts of fire opposite kindled on the far side of the open glade.

‘Ready your arrows, they are corralling us, do not let it happen…’

But there was no sign of the dragons, just the spurt of flame, the awareness that their escapes were being cut off. Glorfindel’s joy in the reunion with Triwathon turned to dismay as he realised the only clear route was on the far side of the clearing and the gap was narrowing even as they stood and stared, seeking targets even as the danger of becoming trapped grew almost to certainty.

Glorfindel sighed. At some point he had become separated from his bow and now pulled the arrows from his quiver and handed them to Lumormen, feeling an odd sense of disconnection from the scene. At least he had seen Triwathon again, he found himself thinking, without really understanding why it seemed suddenly important.

Behind them the flames crackled hungrily and the time left before they had to utterly break cover was diminishing rapidly. A rush of air, and there, above in the sky, the huge dragon and its remaining offspring waited hungrily, circling. 

A sinking feeling lined the pit of Glorfindel’s stomach with lead as he looked around at his friends, knowing that this was why he was here, what he was here for and suddenly really not wanting to accept it…

‘This is what we must do,’ Triwathon was saying, his voice crisp and clear with decision. ‘We must keep our nerve and nock arrows. Then we will skirt the clearing, some going one way, some the other. They are waiting for one of us to run straight into the open glade, so if we present a different target, then it will confuse them and should we be attacked, then the rest can fire at the creatures; we will reconvene at the break across the glade. We are not panicking villagers, caught unawares, we are tried and tested warriors. We will escape this.’

‘Not if you keep wittering on, penneth,’ Glorfindel said under his breath. ‘Erestor!’ he said more loudly. ‘Tell Mel thanks for… for everything. It was sweet, he was... just sweet. Triwathon – I’ll see you later, we’ve a lot of catching up to do.’

‘What?’

‘The rest of you – don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’

And Glorfindel drew his sword and dashed yelling into the middle of the clearing.

*

A chorus of yells and protests followed him, but Glorfindel ignored them, caught up in his own personal truth; this had always been his task. He’d been the one to have the dream, the one Lord Námo came to. He was the one who was possibly going to die.

Probably.

Well, most likely.

_...Oh, sweet Mel…! I am sorry, penneth, I…_

The biggest of the creatures swooped, and outstretched talons reached for him. Glorfindel swung his sword, jabbing and stabbing, trying to buy time for his friends to shoot. But he couldn’t delay long enough, do enough damage to the scaly claws to deflect them and he found himself encircled by talons that clenched and squeezed his midsection and wrenched his neck back on his head as the great wings flapped and lifted him up into the sky.

Dizzy from the pressure of the encircling claws, his head reeled and almost he lost his grip on the sword. The fear of that, of losing his weapon brought him back to himself and he fought to breathe, looking around in the night to get his bearings.

He was already high above the forest and could see pockets and rings of flame below dotted across the treescape. A hiss of arrows gave him the direction of his friends; he was being carried across the canopy and for a moment he wondered why they were still shooting, when he was the most vulnerable thing in the sky…

But then the by-now familiar screech of a young dragon in pain assailed his ears and he realised there were - had been – two of the younglings following the adult dragon.

He remembered what they’d seen earlier – the elf snatched up, dropped for the dragonets to fight over, and suddenly he hoped one of the arrows might find his heart.

*

‘No!’ Triwathon yelled as the dragon struck. ‘Glorfindel!’

He made to dash out into the clearing but Arveldir and Parvon grabbed him, held him between them.

‘You cannot!’ Parvon said. ‘We need you too much! And you cannot help him by dying. Come, help us now.’

Several of the Galadhrim loosed their arrows, doing no damage other than to annoy the dragon which lifted out of the clearing bearing Glorfindel in its crushing grip. To those who could bear to watch, he seemed insensible, unconscious as he was borne up. The dragonets followed.

‘Fire your arrows!’ Arveldir ordered. ‘At the young ones, shoot! Then make for the firebreaks, push through anywhere, get safe. Erestor, help Amathel with the elfling. We cannot help Glorfindel now, and his sacrifice is all to save us and draw the dragons away; we must honour his gift.’

One of the young dragons screamed, struck by the Galadhrim archers. Its body plummeted into the forest, disappearing further away than they had expected. The large dragon cried out, opened its talons and Glorfindel’s body dropped…


	8. At the New Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While events unfold in the forest, Acting Commander Narunir and the scribe Faerveren consult together...

At first, Captain Narunir had not believed Triwathon when he said he’d given him the hardest job; how difficult could it be to keep the palace safe?

But he soon realised it was going to be more challenging than he had anticipated; many of the elves who had come in from the surrounding settlements for the nightmeal were now anxious to get home to make sure all was well with their neighbours.

After his third conversation with anxious, insistent elves, he put guards on the outer doors to stop any of them from leaving, and visited the Palace Office to garner official support.

Faerveren, the scribe on duty, looked up with a smile that didn’t quite hide his concern at being left in charge.

‘Acting Commander Narunir, how can the Palace Office help today? Tonight, of course…’

Narunir shook his head.

‘Master Faerveren, we have elves wanting to leave…’

‘I know; I have told those who came to me, no, there is an unspecified emergency in the forest and it is policy for them to stay here and for those outside to come in to the palace to shelter if it is safe to do so. I have suggested their friends and families, if they obey the orders, will be with them soon. I have had this posted on the official notice boards around the palace, but it is not stopping them from asking… May I tell them they will be restrained, for their own safety, if they continue to disregard instructions? Remind them we have lockable cells here?’

‘That would be very helpful, to know we’re showing a united front. I would like to send out a small – very small – scouting party to see if all is well and if the villagers really are coming, although, if they are not, I do not see how I can force them, not with a score of warriors…’

‘I agree. I suppose… as long as there is no immediate danger, they are safer where they are. Oh, one other thing – we have been expecting the messenger, he is late… I do not know whether his tardiness is linked to the danger, or not, he has never been really reliable, but if your scouts find news of him… and if he is found…’

‘How late, exactly?’

‘The messengers usually arrive between the day meal and supper, and but for the emergency in the forest, I would not mention it…’

‘It’s not Girithon, is it?’ Narunir asked. When the scribe nodded, he grinned. ‘Oh, yes, I know what he’s like… I will give orders to bring him in, whichever bed we find him in. I’ll also send scouts out to the half mile boundaries, see what’s happening.’

‘Very well. And thank you for keeping me informed.’

*

Faerveren waited for the Acting Commander to leave before turning back to his work. Normally, of course, he would not be on duty at night, but these were special circumstances… it was all rather exciting and slightly alarming in his eyes; strictly speaking, he wasn’t experienced enough to be in charge, he was not Parvon’s assistant, as such, but his assistant Feren’s assistant, but Feren had been chosen to ride down with the king to the Old Palace…

The scribe hid a sigh. It was an honour to be so trusted by Master Parvon that he was left in charge of course, but he felt a little out of his depth and would have much preferred to be spending the Yule festivities in the Old Palace, where his family were mostly settled. Still, he had caught a glimpse of one of his uncles at the top table earlier; Captain Canadion was here for the celebrations. So he was not entirely alone and without kin…

It would have been a more comforting thought had he not known his uncle had offered his services to Commander Triwathon for the duration of the emergency and had ridden out armed and ready to fight whatever was out there...

Well. Everything Faerveren could do, he had done. Caught up with the filing, tidied the office, made notices and had them posted on the boards, reassured more visitors to the office that yes, they were safe here, no, they could not go home tonight… he decided it was not unreasonable, now, to push the door from being wide open to being halfway closed; it gave him a sense of being available, but not completely poised for action which made him feel a bit better about sitting back in his chair and rubbing his eyes.

Not that he was especially sleepy, but it had been a busy few days, with preparations for the Yule celebrations already underway. 

The first main event would be the Yule Eve Feast, two days away now. The following day, Yule itself, there was a gathering for the middle-day meal, with the evening being given over to the Night of the Names, the most important commemoration of the Silvan calendar. By tradition a private affair, after a formal opening ceremony for the shared observances, people would retire with their families and friends to share private memories of those they had lost. There were always public observances, though, for those who had no-one else to share their memories with; it was the king’s wish that nobody be alone on the Night of the Names lest it be too difficult.

Sometimes, it was. Faerveren had heard the story, told almost in whispers, about how his uncle had almost faded from grief after one of his friends had died while they were fighting together; everyone knew elves were not intended for death and the bonds made even just of friendship were powerful when you could spend thousands of years together.

Thousands of years! Faerveren wondered what that must be like; he was only in his low hundreds, still, yet his uncle’s husband was almost as old as the king, and Commander Triwathon, so it was said, had once been very close friends with Lord Glorfindel, who had been born long ago in the far west, in Tirion… it was almost beyond understanding, how long ago that was…

A knock on the half-open door, and Narunir was back.

‘Dragons,’ he said in brisk tones, ‘it is officially dragons! Refugees have started to find their way in from the north-western villages; Oak, Elm and Beech, I have put some of my guard at the perimeter line to help people get in, it is dreadful, the tales I have heard, and…’

Faerveren went to a drawer in one of the other desks and took out a bottle two-thirds filled with a dark amber liquid.

‘Master Parvon’s emergency restorative,’ he said, pouring a measure into a cup and handing it to Narunir. ‘Sit for a moment, gather your thoughts. Then tell me, if you can.’

Narunir followed these suggestions with relief, nodding as the spirits shocked and soothed his distress.

‘Reports coming in of dragons in the sky. Many of the elves, when they heard the alarms, decided to stay and wait for help; those who are here fled immediately, as they were supposed to do. There are a few injuries, but mostly people are frightened by what they have seen. They are mostly families with elflings who decided it was better to leave with the little ones…’

‘I must arrange for Healer Maereth to be told, and…’

‘It is already done. She is preparing for worse injuries to follow, for, if it is dragons, and these are but the elves who left as soon as the warning came, then those who follow are likely to be in need of more serious help…’

‘That is true. Thank you. Do you have any warriors with field training who could help, if Mae needs support?’

‘I do… but I have sent them to the perimeter. It seemed best.’

‘Of course. Is there any word from the other villages, those east and south?’

‘No; it seems the dragons have stayed to the west and north of our position. Presumably they will… oh, I cannot begin to guess what dragons will do, Master Faerveren! I am speaking only to give myself courage!’

‘It makes sense, though. That is, one does not think of dragons arrayed as an army and thinking as such with strategy and deployment of forces. They fight, and they hunt, so, perhaps they would focus on one area at a time…’

‘Yes, so the eastern and southern settlements should be safe. I will recall my scouts as soon as the messenger is found…’

‘Thank you. But if you need them, call them back now; the messenger is the least of my worries.’

*

Narunir drained his cup and nodded a farewell, leaving the Palace Office to be about his duties. 

Guessing there would be a few minutes at least before further hordes of alarmed, annoyed elves turned up demanding information, Faerveren decided to close the office and pay a quick visit to the healers’ rooms. 

He found Healer Maereth busy, but not too busy to hand over to her assistant and come and smile at him; they had started in the New Palace at the same time, and although some thought the Healer to have a timid disposition, when left to herself she had proved to be confident and able.

‘Master Faerveren, you are not ill, I hope?’

‘No, in fact, I came to say, I hope you are not too occupied tonight and if the Palace Office can help, send and I will come.’

‘Thank you, that is very kind. At present, it is all very minor, people have been frightened, have perhaps stumbled or been scratched as they hurried through the forest – some of the brambles have no manners – but all is under control.’

‘I will pray it stays that way, Healer.’

‘So shall we all, I think. In addition, I am making lists of those who are here safely, to make it easier to account for everyone later…’ She sighed and turned her head slightly away. ‘An unpleasant thought, but I have had my assistants clear out one of our store rooms and set up tables; we may see deaths tonight, Faerveren.’

‘This near to the Night of the Names… how awful! But then, death is always awful, I suppose.’

Maereth nodded. ‘Just when we had begun to think it was behind us, too, all the evil and darkness from the old days cleaned away…’

‘Let us hope this is just the last, lingering dregs of it, Healer Mae.’

Voices outside, many of them, and a small crowd of elves filtered in. Amongst them were two with silver blond hair and unfamiliar clothing; Galadhrim! What were they doing here?

One stepped forward and bowed.

‘Healer, we were asked to escort your villagers to safety; there are dragons and they are burning the settlements and attacking the people.’

‘Oh, dear!’ Maereth summoned her assistants with a wave of her hand and moved towards the battered Silvans. ‘Oh, you poor things, come through with me and let us take a look at you…’

‘If you need help, Healer Mae, send to me,’ Faerveren said. ‘Honoured friends, the New Palace thanks you for helping our people. I am Faerveren, presently in charge of administration. If you have a few minutes, would you come to my office? I would like to ask you some questions, if I may. It is just along here.’

On the way he sent word with a servant to Narunir; the acting commander would appreciate being part of the debriefing, might even know better than Faerveren what questions to ask.

*

Faerveren returned to the office and ushered the Galadhrim to seats.

‘For your service, we are most grateful,’ he said. ‘And whatever information you have will be most helpful. We should wait, though, for the Acting Commander in charge of the garrison. Meanwhile, may I offer you a drink? I have strong spirits, or water, whichever you would prefer.

‘Water would be a blessing, Master Faerveren.’

He served them himself from the jug on the side table. While he was doing so, Narunir arrived.

‘Acting Commander, thank you for coming.’

‘We found your missing messenger. Holed up in one of the villages, said he was delayed setting out from the Old Palace and felt it too late to continue on tonight, but the tale is he was at the neighbouring village the night before. Debriefing him now, Master Faerveren, will send him along once we’ve done.’

‘I am grateful. Commander, these good Galadhrim have escorted in a dozen or so villagers from Elm, they are currently with the healers. My guests, Commander Narunir is in charge of the garrison while our Commander Triwathon is on duty. I am sure he would like to ask some questions.’

Not least what Galadhrim were doing in the forest anyway…

‘We came with the elves from Imladris,’ one said, when Narunir asked, more tactfully than Faerveren felt he would have done, to explain their presence. ‘We had been staying there on our way to the Havens. When Lord Glorfindel had a dream of danger, he insisted on setting out, and so we went with him.’

‘Lord Glorfindel is in our forest? The Balrog-Slayer?’

‘Yes, he. Also with him were those known as Arveldir and Erestor, and Elladan and Rusdir…’

‘I know Rusdir!’ Narunir said. ‘A fine captain when he served. And what were their plans, do you know?’

‘Arveldir said they would go towards the villages and try to help. There are dragons, but Lord Glorfindel seemed confident he could deal with them.’

‘If Rusdir is there, I am sure, between them they can,’ Narunir said. ‘Do you know how many?’

‘No. We saw shadows; one very large, several smaller. Their activity seemed concentrated on the area where we were told the villages are situated; certainly, they did not follow us as we came through the forest. That is all.’

All! Faerveren took this in in a state of near-wonder. Arveldir, in the forest, and Lord Glorfindel the Balrog-Slayer, too!

Somehow, suddenly, things didn’t seem quite as bad.


	9. Confrontation with Sundry Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Glorfindel clashes with dragons...

With a sickening sense of inevitability Erestor watched as Glorfindel was snatched up into the sky. Triwathon had tried to dash after him, Arveldir and Parvon compelled to restrain him so that only the Galadhrim were free to fire at the creature. Fin’s words echoed around his mind… _‘Tell Mel… thanks for everything… it was sweet…’_

It couldn’t really be, could it? Glorfindel couldn’t die like this, surely? No, of course not, somehow he would survive, he always did… he would ride back to Imladris in triumph and greet Mel for himself and…

He heard shouts, Arveldir giving instructions, heard his own name.

‘Erestor, help Amathel with the elflings…’

‘Of course.’ Erestor turned to the youngling. ‘Little one, let me carry you. Amathel, these are your woods, lead on.’

She nodded, tearing her eyes away from the dwindling shapes in the sky, setting off across the glade. Erestor followed, but even as they reached the open space, flame filled it. With a yell of defiance, Amathel leapt through and Erestor held the elfling tight and launched himself over the barricade of flame. He felt searing pain in his legs and retained enough presence of mind to set the elfling down before slapping at the fire that had caught in his garments; it heightened the agony briefly, but he managed to smother the flames.

‘Erestor, are you all right? I mean, oh, I am sorry, I never thought, I…’

‘I will be fine,’ he said firmly, ignoring the pain. ‘How far have we to go?’

Amathel sighed.

‘Two miles, thereabouts. We can do it, I am sure,’ she said. ‘But I cannot carry the little one…’

‘I will do that,’ Erestor said. ‘I thought… the others, they are not following?’

‘Glorfindel… he was fighting back, they will have followed the dragon to see if they can help, I think. It is what I would have done, if I was able… He is your friend, I am sorry…’

‘It takes a lot to stop Glorfindel,’ Erestor said, picking up the child again. ‘Come, I will tell you some of his stories as we go.’ 

They set off, Erestor limping and lurching along, Amathel with her good shoulder under his free arm to support him, staggering slowly towards the safety of the New Palace bolstered by tales of Glorfindel’s courage.

*

Glorfindel was not exactly feeling courageous.

The pressure of the talons was almost, but not quite, on the point of being unbearable, and he had enough to do simply to keep breathing, to keep calm as he was dragged through the air. At least flying wasn’t like falling, he remembered that terrible, agonising plummet from the end of his last life, not a happy thought to have now while he was so far above the forest… 

Would it hurt less to land on trees than on mountain rock? And which was hotter, dragon fire, or Balrog flame? He hoped he would not find out, but just as he began to think he might be able to strike his sword up into the dragon’s belly, it called out and opened its claws.

Glorfindel fell, hearing the scream of a dragonet behind him. He took a breath, gripped his sword more tightly, and hoped that he would not be caught before he hit the trees; the idea of being ripped asunder by dragonets made even his last death seem appealing…

Then one set of talons, smaller, reached for him, almost missed, caught him by one leg. The sudden piercing of claws sent shrieks of agony through him as he was pulled upwards. Inverted, he saw one of the two chasing youngsters convulse in the air and drop even as the one that held him tightened its talons to clutch and rip at him further. He used the pain, used his welling dread and despair to bring his sword up in a wobbling, hesitant arc that still managed to connect with the dragonet’s throat as it bent its salivating jaws towards him. His yell of triumph was more of a gargle, drowned by the gush of blood from the creature as its maw opened wider in a silent shriek; his sword had severed its vocal chords. The wyrmling struggled to keep in the air, struggled to keep hold of him as it lost attitude and he plummeted with it in a terrifying drop that promised him only pain and death as the trees parted and the ground rushed up to smack into him with devastating force. 

His last conscious thought was that he would be back with Ecthelion at last.

And that he was going to have rather a lot of explaining to do.

*

‘Hurry! Through here, this way! Does anyone have healer training?’ Triwathon’s voice was desperate as he ran, tears threatening to blind him. ‘They went this way! Make haste…!’

‘Erestor! Where is Erestor?’ Arveldir called out. ‘Amathel? Erestor?’

‘They got away, Lord Arveldir, through the other side of the clearing,’ Thandir said. ‘Your friend was carrying the elfling… Lord – what about Glorfindel? He will be all right, won’t he? Is he not the Balrog-Slayer?’

Arveldir forced down his panic. Erestor had got away, his beloved was safe, heading away from the direction of the dragons’ path. 

‘Yes, penneth, he’s the Balrog-Slayer. Let us hope…’

He bit down on the hope, for really, Glorfindel was very old, and very tired, and Arveldir found he was unsure what he was hoping; that Glorfindel would survive, or that he would find a quick death and a swift release from the horror and the pain. Either option, given how roughly Fin had been mauled, seemed to have its drawbacks.

*

The first thing Glorfindel noticed when he came back to himself was that he felt utterly exhausted. Well, no wonder, he reasoned; it had been a hard night, and to have ended it in an unexpected flight that had ended just as abruptly… Everything ached, everything hurt and the deep, harsh throbbing where the dragonet’s talons had hooked into his thigh told him of serious damage. At least his hair wasn’t singed this time, getting it twisted up out of the way had been a good idea…

He allowed his mind to wander, but not his focus. He knew the big dragon would be somewhere near, would have followed to see what had happened to the youngling; its corpse was within touching distance and he would have loved to move away… except that he’d heard that some dragons might not see still objects well, but they spotted motion far more readily… and when he looked, really looked, softening his eyes, there it was, crouched amongst the trees, black against charcoal black in the night; he could hear it breathing, a harsh, rasping, grating…

Ah. No, that was him. What happened when you ignored the pain, you forgot it still had an effect on your body… the thing must know where he was. 

Why was it waiting? Why, if had had come to see what happened to the dragonet, had it not investigated? Why had it not attacked?

A high, shrill shriek and a battery of wings; that would be why, he mused idly, as another dragonet came in. It was injured, struggling to control its landing, and he could see several Galadhrim arrows protruding from its wing, its belly, its tail… The big dragon was definitely the mother, then, teaching the babies to forage, to fight, and probably wouldn’t be at all happy if Glorfindel were to kill the last of her brood…

But if he didn’t kill it, he was going to become a living feast for the wyrmling, and the thought really didn’t appeal.

If he concentrated all his attention on his arm, he could still lift his blade…

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, timing his strike so that as the dragonet lunged its head towards him, the sword sheared through its neck. Hardly old enough to flame, that one, he found himself thinking as it flopped in its last throes around the glade. Well, dead now, poor thing, only trying to do what it was meant to do, not its fault if that wasn’t good for elves. So if there were more little ones around…

A huge hiss and part of the landscape detached itself to turn in his direction; the mother dragon had seen her child die instead of feed, and now she was coming for revenge.

‘They’re all dead then, your brood? Sorry, I know, mothers love their babies, yes, but if you lot ate grass you wouldn’t have this problem,’ Fin muttered as the dragon uncoiled towards him, inhaling massively prior to flaming as it reared up its sharp and teeth-filled head. Not sure how nimble he was likely to be – at this point he’d settle for mobile – Glorfindel faced a difficult decision between conserving his energy and dashing in before the dragon was quite ready. Fortunately, instinct took over from thought and he found himself lurching up and diving towards the dragon in a roll that brought him up under its head and able to stab his sword up into the gullet. With a spray of blood, the creature screamed and braced backwards, snaking its neck to bring the maw into position to snort fire.

Glorfindel jabbed again and succeeded in causing the dragon to shake its head and lean back on its haunches, raising itself up to flail with its razored fore claws, catching him an agonizing blow across his already-injured thigh. He stumbled back, trying to disregard the sudden outrage of his body, the leg that would hardly bear him. Gritting his teeth and thinking, if nothing else, that he’d be back with Ecthelion soon, he brandished his sword. The dragon sneered, gathered its breath and just as it began to blast out its fire, a furious whinny split the air; Asfaloth appeared from nowhere, bells shrilling sweet and wild, drawing the dragon’s attention and spinning to present his rump towards the beast. The stallion gathered all the power of his quarters and back-kicked fiercely, catching the dragon in its eye and misdirecting its burst of flame. Sudden heat and flame bathed Glorfindel who retained enough presence of mind – even as the ‘Oh, not again…!’ was rushing through his head – to roll to douse the flames on his garments and convert his momentum into a last, desperate strike with the sword that severed the dragon’s head and cut off its flame and, equally abruptly, its life.

The decapitated body flopped and floundered in its death throes, knocking Glorfindel down before it landed with a thud across the lower half of his body, causing him to scream and swear and flail about until the pain settled down to just about bearable and he was able to take stock. 

After the brief burst of fire everything now was worryingly dark, even for elf eyes. Glorfindel looked around him as best he could; just trying to raise his head hurt. 

Really, though, everything hurt. His face had received a licking of flame and stung and sang out of what a mess he was going to be. His shoulder ached, his leg was numb and agonising at the same time, somehow, as if it was really hurting but he hadn’t noticed yet; the weight of the dragon’s neck on his legs was crushingly hard… Strange, he’d often wondered which would burn hotter, a Balrog or a dragon, and now he knew; the Balrog, every time.

The knowledge didn’t help him now, though.

A snort, and Asfaloth’s muzzle came into focus. The horse butted at Fin’s chin and unburned cheek gently. Fin laughed, and managed to lift his hand to rub the old stallion, old friend’s nose.

‘Nice horsey,’ he said. ‘Yes, I owe you an apology; you’re not past it, not over the hill. You’re just the best. Thank you, my dear old friend. Going to miss you… I wish we could take horses to Valinor under the same terms that we go… you know… without the dying…’

‘Talking about dying…’ a voice said, a mocking, laughing, serious voice that Glorfindel knew of old, knew most recently from his prophetic dreams. ‘We ought to have a little chat, Glorfindel, you and I.’

‘Lord Námo!’ Fin tried to sound politely interested. ‘This is a surprise… busy day? Done now, off home?’

‘Just one or two loose ends… there will be some new faces around the Halls of Mandos soon, sure enough. It could have been worse, though… it could have been much, much worse…’

‘How is everyone? My friends?’

‘Ah. Now, yes, they seem to have come through almost unscathed. At present, of course… who knows what else could happen…? None are dead yet, certainly. Elrohir, his fëa-mate’s sister, she’s coming home with me. It’s a pity, but her husband is waiting for her and they will be glad to see each other again. Her sons will stay here.’ Námo sauntered into Fin’s restricted field of view, bright sparkles of light showing like an after trail as he moved, as flickers around his joints where the light of his Vala nature tried to spill out. He patted his pocket. ‘You’d be surprised how little room a fëa takes up in a coat like this. I’ve got room for one more easily…’

‘How’s Ecthelion?’ Glorfindel asked. ‘No message?’

‘Well, I didn’t like to say, “I shall be talking to your Glorfindel, later,” it might have worried him. He’s… as well as can be expected, for one in my Halls. He’s been very kind, keeping one of my other guests company, chap called Oropher… you may know him? Very sad fellow, rather guilt-ridden, but quite a warrior in his day…’

‘I saw him die, yes, I know Oropher. But Thel? Still with you?’

‘Well, he’s got this idea that you and he can build your villa together. Personally, I think it’s sweet he wanted to wait for you.’

‘I do miss him. Will you tell him for me? Tell him I love him, I miss him and… I’ve been a bit silly but I…’

‘You could always tell him yourself, of course. If you want.’

Silence as Fin took this in. Then he found himself laughing, a deep, giddy laugh that hurt and cleansed, somehow.

‘Is that why you’re here? Not just to say, “thank you for listening to my interruptions to your beauty sleep,” but a call home?’

Námo hunkered down at Fin’s side. He swept his hand across the Balrog-Slayer’s face and rested his hand for a moment in the junction between Glorfindel’s neck and shoulder. Miraculously, the pain melted away like snow in sunshine. Fin sighed, relaxed.

‘There, now we can talk properly. Your friends will be here in a few moments, so you do not have long to decide… It’s quite simple, I’m offering you the choice to stay, and recover from your injuries, be the hero again… there would be quite a bit of pain, yes, and you would scar a little… but I see you already are… then you can say your goodbyes and sail to Valinor where you can have all this healed and meet your Ecthelion at the gates when he leaves… say about three months to get well enough to travel, to make the journey to the Havens, to get on a boat… another two or three weeks at sea, then time with Lady Estë’s wonderful people… or you can come with me now. A short sleep, and you’ll wake up to find your Ecthelion at your side.’ Námo patted the pocket of his tunic and smiled brightly. With his darker-than dark eyes, it was disconcerting to say the least. ‘I’ve always got room for a little one…’

‘I bet you have!’ Glorfindel found himself smiling, but then his mood changed. ‘I’d love to, really, but… I’ve behaved badly, I… there’s this Silvan… and I have to explain…’

‘Your friend Triwathon?’ Námo nodded. ‘You do realise you’re in the clear? I happen to know that your betrothal to Ecthelion, under the rules and laws of Gondolin, ended with your death. Well, technically his betrothal to you, since he died first. And that he released you from your promises anyway once he knew you were to be re-embodied. But look at it this way; if you come with me, you will have died all over again, thus wiping out any physical connection to your body. And if you have to explain anyway, isn’t it better to do it in my Halls where he can’t really thump you? Or get away from you, for that matter?’

Fin managed a ghost of a smile.

‘I do love my Thel,’ he said. ‘I have so missed him. But…’

‘And he loves you; it’s obvious. Oh, and it will all be very painless – well, I’ve blocked the pain for you. You see, you were bleeding quite badly from your leg, but when the dragon died on you, its neck put pressure on the vein… so instead of gushing out, your blood is just trickling. When your friends come, they will, of course, want to lift the dead thing out of the way… and you will just spurt your life blood all over them, my friend… half a minute, you’ll be gone. Easy. Or if you want to stay, then I get in front of Arveldir or Triwathon and say, now, before you do that you might want to put a tourniquet in place…’

‘It sounds very tempting… I really don’t like long sea voyages… and to be back with Thel…’

‘I have to take another fëa back with me anyway – checks and balances and all that – if it isn’t you it will be some poor Silvan in the Healers Hall… probably an ellith with an elfling and a husband she loves… Or maybe that Parvon fellow, he’d be missed, of course, but he doesn’t have any family to speak of. And nobody really loves him, poor chap…’

‘When you put it like that… oh, no, you can’t take Parvon, he loves Triwathon, they really should be together, if you take him…’

Lord Námo gave a minimal, elegant shrug.

‘I think there’s a messenger nobody would miss, but I’d rather not have him in my halls at present. Well? Not Parvon then, but what’s troubling you now? It isn’t really difficult, just a yes or a no… How hard can it be, Glorfindel?’

‘It’s just… there’s one or two loose ends… I’d really like to say goodbye to some people…’

‘You don’t think I’d let you die a hero’s death without witnesses, do you? Your friends, as I think I mentioned, are on their way.’

‘And could… could we make a little stop off along the way…?’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Námo appeared to smile. ‘Oh. Company; you see, I said your friends would find you. I’ll just be over there waiting. Time to be the hero again, Glorfindel! You do deserve it, you know…’


	10. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon catches up with Glorfindel...

Triwathon ran through the forest, not caring where he stepped, what dangers he might meet. He dodged around burning underbrush, leapt smouldering piles of leaves, following after the dragons almost oblivious to anything except the shadows in the sky. Somewhere behind him, following more circumspectly, Arveldir and Parvon and the Galadhrim followed as best as they could with an eye to the sky lest the Commander’s heedless rush bring the attention of the dragon downs on him, as well.

But of their care Triwathon was ignorant.

He watched in dismay as the lead dragon dropped Glorfindel, in horror as a wyrmling caught him badly and thought he heard a scream. He did not allow it to slow his pace. It felt as if he was running forever, and part of him could not understand why all was still dark; surely, dawn should have come long ago?

In reality, it was less than an hour when the smell of blood assailed him and he dropped to a walk, peering through the branches and seeing, amidst the ruin of dead dragons, the body of his once so-beloved friend. His heart fractured, shattered and splintered apart as he never thought it could.

Approaching, and finding Glorfindel not dead, was joyous despite the injuries he could see, and without thought he knelt to his dear friend and cradled him, gently patting his face.

*

‘…Glorfindel? Laurefindil? Wake up, please!’

Something patted lightly at his face.

‘Glorfindel, iphant-nin?’

‘Triwathon? Is that you, Commander?’

Glorfindel made himself concentrate. Now that Lord Námo had retreated, it was difficult to see properly again, but he from the voice, he was almost certain it was his former lover who had spoken. Whoever it was lifted his upper body, cradled him close in strong, shaking arms and kissed his forehead before looking down at him. The touch was familiar, affectionate and kind. And there was a face. Upside down: Triwathon’s face was upside down in his field of view, his hair dangling and tangled, braids unravelling, his face tear-smeared. As Glorfindel tried to focus, the hold on him shifted, and Triwathon’s face appeared the right way up again.

But just as tear-streaked.

‘You did it, Laurefindil, you killed the dragon! The dragonets are all slain, the fires are dying out, we are all right… we will be all right…’ Triwathon lifted his head so that Fin could only see the underside of his chin. ‘Anyone? A healer here! A help here, hurry!’

Glorfindel moved his least damaged hand and Triwathon grasped it.

‘Oh, my dear iphant, look at the state of you! What happened?’

‘…killed the damn thing, what does it look like happened…? Asfaloth kicked it in the head, stopped it doing too much harm… look out for him, will you?’

‘I’ll search for him myself, once we have you taken care of.’

‘Thank you, penneth.’

There didn’t seem to be much to say other than to try to prepare Triwathon for his death, and if he mentioned it, then the danger was Triwathon would realise there was something seriously wrong and probably that moving the dragon would cause more serious damage… and Fin really, really didn’t want to live now, not with all this and Triwathon talking and talking about how cold you are, Laurefindil, you have been missed, it’s not been the same, and clutching him as if he still loved him…

‘Commander? Are you there?’

‘Parvon, yes! Bring help!’

‘I am here,’ Arveldir’s familiar voice followed. ‘Where are you?’

‘Follow the smell of dead dragon,’ Námo muttered in words that Glorfindel heard in his head. It made him want to giggle and he did smile.

‘Hurry! Glorfindel is badly hurt!’

Arveldir and Parvon pushed through the trees from different quarters. Parvon gasped in surprise and horror while Arveldir hurried to drop to his knees at Glorfindel’s side.

‘Oh, my friend, my dear old friend… are you in much pain?’

‘Not really,’ Fin said. ‘I was, but it passed…’ 

More voices, more elves… Galadhrim, Fin thought, little, twittery voices, somehow. He was starting to feel really tired now, to want to be gone.

‘We need to get this thing off him,’ Triwathon said. ‘Come, someone, help.’

‘Should we not wait for a healer?’ Arveldir suggested. His eyes sought out an area of shadow that wasn’t really a shadow; he swallowed, recognising Námo, guessing at what was to come. ‘Is there not a risk…?’

‘Arveldir,’ Fin interrupted. ‘Get this damn dragon off me. And tell Mel, Asfaloth… his, now…’ He was vaguely aware of orders being given, of the Galadhrim clustering. Suddenly a weight lifted from his lower body and he felt the rush of blood with something close to relief. He took a breath and looked up into Triwathon’s face, remembering how shy the Commander had been when first they’d met, how he’d grown in confidence and lived through so many dangers to come to this. And even though Glorfindel now was torn with guilt for not remaining celibate until he could be reunited with Ecthelion, still, his affair with the young Commander had been borne from need rather than lust. Even so, it had been wonderful; warmly affectionate, hotly passionate, endlessly healing… ‘Triwathon, you’ve been amazing; you’ve done so much…’

‘Oh, my dear, dear Honey-Beer, I… come, you cannot die, you cannot, I made towels for you again, they are back in my rooms, blue towels with golden flowers, just like I always send, and… Laurefindil, you cannot die like this, I need to talk to you, to tell you something, I… You said, a lot to catch up on…’

Hands reached, tried to staunch the bleeding. Voices rose and fell, distant, making no sense any more. Behind Triwathon’s head, Námo was waiting. He beckoned and opened his coat, indicating an inside pocket. Glorfindel felt cool, weightless now the heaviness of his blood was draining away. He smiled, and kept smiling, seeing beyond Triwathon to the peace that waited for him. He went to take another breath…

…and didn’t. Was standing with Námo’s hand on his shoulder watching the response to his death. Parvon saw it first, he thought, and was there, kneeling at Triwathon’s side when the Commander realised. Triwathon responded next, threw his head back and wailed, a huge, primal outpouring of grief that would have startled Glorfindel, had he not just been separated from his body and therefore not prone to such excesses of feeling; whatever the Silvan had been about to stay remained locked in his heart. The anguish of his grief alerted Arveldir, whose mouth compressed in a grim line for a moment before he looked directly at Námo and bowed, his hand over his heart. 

Glorfindel waved – or rather, his fëa did, and Námo chuckled, looking down on the Balrog-Slayer with affection.

‘Ah, but he can’t see you, my friend, only me. And I am not about to stop and chat to him. Now, is there anything you want to do here or can we get on?’

‘Not here, no. Poor Triwathon, he looks terribly upset…’

‘Well, he was in love with you not so long ago; I should think that has an effect, you know. But he’ll get over it. There is an irony, if you think about it…’

‘Is there?’ 

‘Perhaps you do not know… I offered him the same choice I offered you – didn’t gloss over the pain waiting for him – and he chose to live. So that he could see you again. Bless these Silvans, they are odd how they process emotions at times…’

‘I hope he doesn’t think I… oh, if he finds out I could have lived and didn’t…’

‘Oh, well, it’s not something he’s likely to ever know really, is it? I don’t see myself telling him, anyway. So. You mentioned something you wanted to do…?’

‘My friend Melpomaen in Rivendell. I said farewell, but… I’d like to see him again, make sure he’s all right. Kiss him goodbye, sort of thing.’

‘You sound wistful, Balrog-Slayer. Melpomaen… I don’t think I’ve had to cross paths with him yet.’

‘He’s nice. Really kind-hearted and gentle. He’s in love with our minstrel Lindir, who’s in love with a human woman who…’

‘I’ll stop you there, it’s already far too complicated. Rivendell… hmm… I could do with having a word or two with someone myself… Yes, all right. Come on, then.’

‘I don’t quite know what you want, Lord…’

‘Of course, you were really out of it last time, you won’t remember… and it only looks as if I’m putting you in my pocket. It helps me remember how many passengers I have on board.’ 

Namo made a swirling gesture with one elegant, pointed finger, and Glorfindel found himself spinning. As he twisted round and round, he felt as if his fëa was condensing, compressing down while all around him grew… but as he diminished, so he could see tiny sparkles of light, fragments of gold flickering around and over him. A sense of space grew over him, making the forest around fade away into darkness. 

Warm and oddly comfortable, enjoying the dance of the golden particles, Glorfindel’s fëa slept.

*

Arveldir found tears streaming down his face. Across from him, Parvon, too, wept for the passing of the Balrog-slayer, the Hero of Gondolin. Triwathon clutched Glorfindel tightly, rocking him and sobbing as if his heart was broken. The Galadhrim looked at each other, moved by the death but bewildered by all these tears.

Well. Someone had to take charge, and Glorfindel had been part of Arveldir’s adoptive household, after all.

‘Glorfindel, my old friend,’ he said, looking at the dead warrior but his mind focussed on the dark shadow between the trees. ‘After all you have done for us… we will never be done honouring you for your service. Be well, my friend, until we meet again. I know the Elvenking would thank you for your sacrifice. As for me, I thank you for your many kindnesses, for all those times you stood at my husband’s side when I could not be there, for your friendship. I will remember you.’

Rising to his feet, he bowed to his dead friend and then turned towards the Galadhrim.

‘Thank you for your help,’ he said. ‘I think what we now need is to find a way of bearing Lord Glorfindel’s remains in honour to the New Palace. Word must be passed, too, that the dragons are all dead and the trails are safe once more. Come with me; I will show you the way.’

‘I do not understand.’ Lumormen came forward from amongst the Galadhrim. ‘Death is dreadful, of course, for any of us. But this seems… not to diminish Lord Glorfindel’s sacrifice, but we will all be reunited, in Valinor, why such deep mourning? When we sail, there will be many reunions with those who have been in Lord Námo’s care…’

Arveldir sighed and shook his head sadly.

‘We, the Silvans of the Greenwood, of Eryn Lasgalen, we do not sail. For Triwathon, this is the last time he will see his friend, unless he, too, dies.’

Lumormen paused for a moment, trying to comprehend the depth of grief this concept brought.

‘I see. Then you have my sympathy, Lord. Now, you wished our aid?’

‘Follow me.’

Leading the way from the glade, Arveldir paused to send out his identifier call, hoping that there would be someone who would come; this was altogether too much, he wanted Erestor and where was he…?

Presently, just before they reached the main trail to the New Palace, he heard an answer to his call and from an opening amongst the tree roots a cluster of dishevelled Silvans emerged, one of them with an infant in his arms.

‘We need to beg pardon,’ he said. ‘This was someone’s resting place and we entered to save our children. And ourselves.’

Arveldir nodded. Silvans traditionally used such tree-caves to lay to rest their dead, and it was considered improper to enter thoughtlessly; symbols scratched in the bark of the tree made it plain where there had been a burial and who was interred, so there was no reason to accidentally stray. 

‘You have elflings with you,’ Arveldir said. ‘I do not think the occupant of the sanctuary would begrudge you their space, not to keep safe your children. But the Night of the Names approaches; you may apologise then, if you wish. Now come, the danger is past. Return to the New Palace, and if you would help, pass the word that all the dragons are slain, and that I, Arveldir attest to it. And if you will, take these Galadhrim with you, show them the way; they are on an errand for me.’ He nodded to the Galadhrim. ‘Someone will come back with you. For now, say nothing of why you need the equipment.’

He laid his hand on the trunk of the tree, murmuring a few words of thanks for its sanctuary on behalf of those who had found shelter there; for himself, he did not think the dead would mind company…

The dead… Glorfindel, lost…! Ai, if only he had realised the extent and placing of the Hero of Gondolin’s injuries, that moving the dragon would compromise his safety…

Arveldir sat down with a thud against the tree. Glorfindel had known; he must have done; he had survived enough battles, been injured often enough, and Námo, waiting in the shelter of the forest shadows… well, Fin had to have understood what would happen, and certainly he would have been a long time healing… and then, how long would he have felt obliged to stay in Middle Earth? Until Arwen aged and died? Until her brothers had finished grieving her? Would the Seneschal of Imladris have ever been finished with his duties to the House of Eärendil, otherwise?

It was sad, though, grievously sad. Glorfindel would be missed, not just as the seneschal but as a true and loyal friend… Ai! Lindir would feel this loss particularly, for Fin had supported the minstrel through a difficult time in his life… but Melpomaen, perhaps, would be most affected; his subtle arrangement with Glorfindel had been noted, and their privacy respected… it did not seem to have been an overwhelmingly intense affair, perhaps just a meeting of lonely hearts… even so, Melpomaen had a tender heart and Arveldir resolved to keep a proper eye on him when they returned to Imladris.

When they returned? How soon was that likely to be, with the New Palace in disarray and the outlying villages in ruin? The news must go back to Imladris as quickly as possible, but it was not something you could trust to just a messenger… and yet who was there to send? Who could be spared without splitting fëa-mate from fëa-mate, fracturing already fragile people more? Rusdir and Elrohir, too cruel to part them… as for himself, chances were Parvon would need his help and that left Erestor, but to send his husband away to bear the burden of sharing such awful tidings was impossible…

Finally the thought he had been continually trying to ignore rose up again like a roaring dragon in his fëa: where was Erestor? He had not seen him since the confusion in the clearing when the flames parted them…

Arveldir laid back his head and sighed.

All he had to do was reach out with his fëa and seek his husband, and he would find him, their bond was that strong. But there was the fear that he might not find him, than Námo had taken more than just Glorfindel away with him…

‘Better to know, than to not,’ he said aloud, and closed his eyes, allowing himself to think of Erestor, of the bond they shared…

…yes! He did not know where, or what, but there was the touch of his mate’s mind; Erestor was irritated about something, trying not to show it… the mood broke abruptly, and relief flooded into Arveldir’s mind; relief from Erestor sensing his concern… 

Erestor was safe. It was all Arveldir needed to know.


	11. Faerveren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erestor reaches the safety of the New Palace...

‘No, I do not know where the Commander is,’ Erestor said, waving a hand at the Silvan villager who had approached to ask. ‘Nor Parvon, nor anyone who knows the running of this place; fighting dragons, I expect. I have just returned myself, I am not here at the healer’s rooms just to pass the time of day, I...’ He shook his head and pointed to where Maereth was presently picking fragments of scorched leggings from a black and red wound that ran most of the length from thigh to ankle on his left leg and which was causing him considerable discomfort. His right leg, far less badly burned, had already been dressed. ‘I think the best place to look will be in the King’s Office, surely? If the healers will let me up, I will come there presently myself.’

Maereth hid a smile.

‘If I had space, I would insist you cannot leave until tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But, alas, I think I will need every bed and pallet…’

‘You are coping exceptionally well, Healer Maereth, and I am most grateful for your skills,’ Erestor said. ‘I would not be so sharp-tongued if I knew more of what was happening outside…’

‘Oh, I am learning about outside with every elf they bring in,’ the Healer replied as she gently applied a patch of healing caul silk to Erestor’s burns and the pain began to subside. ‘I have just discovered, for example, that visiting dignitaries do not find it beneath themselves to endanger themselves for our elflings. And that is quite enough information for me, it gives me hope…’ She moved on to apply bindings over the top of the caul silk, nodding to herself as she noted the exact moment when the analgesic properties inherent in the dressing took full effect. ‘Amathel is being treated for her broken arm and your elfling – that is, the elfling you brought in with you has no serious physical injuries. There, you are patched up and if I did have a place to lay you down, I would. As it is, I suggest you go to your room and lie down for a while. You can visit the King’s Office later.’

‘My thanks, Healer. I am not sure I can get there without interruption, but I will try to rest, perhaps.’

Maereth found a staff Erestor could use as a support and watched him leave with a sigh that threatened to become tears. For all she had spoken bravely, her spirits were considerably oppressed with the weight of work and, worse, the knowledge that just beyond the entrance to the healing rooms where she had set up her emergency station was a large chamber, generally used for storage but which had been hastily reorganised to make room for the dead. Already four bodies had been brought in and laid respectfully on the floor, a lantern set as company for them.

‘Healer Mae?’ Her assistant approached with a beaker. ‘It is two hours since you took a moment; drink, breathe. You know how you are always telling us one cannot draw water from an empty well; replenish yourself.’

‘Thank you, Othwen. Yes; I could do with a little time. How are things?’

Accepting the cup, she sipped slowly at the cool water, resting against the edge of her dressings table while Othwen made her report.

‘We are almost caught up; there are three minor injuries to dress but I am currently waiting for the pain relief to take hold. It seemed a good time to bring you a drink.’

‘My thanks, yes.’ Maereth made herself smile. ‘Now, I will come and help with those dressings, if you like.’

‘That would be…’

A tap at the doorway and one of the guard there, covered in soot and grime. He looked very young.

‘Healers? I have some charges for you,’ he said, and ushered in a party of six or so battered Silvans.

‘And what of you, penneth?’ Mae asked.

‘Oh, I am fine while there is work to be done.’

Maereth nodded. 

‘As are we,’ she said to Othwen before turning back to the new arrivals. ‘Now, who is hurt, where and how…?’

*

Erestor was almost at the Palace Office when his strength faltered and he staggered, almost falling but managing to steady himself on the wall. The fact of the matter was, of course, he did not have a chamber assigned to him yet and so the only thing he could think of was to install himself in the Palace Office where there would, at least, be seating and where someone might be able to find a room for him, if they were not too busy with the chaos of forest fires and dragon attacks... 

But even as he started to move again, he was hailed by the familiar, light voices of the Galadhrim.

‘Master Erestor, can you help us?’

‘Yes, Erestor, please, Lord Arveldir sent us…’

Halting and leaning on the wall once more, Erestor’s dismay turned to relief.

‘You have come from Arveldir? Is he well?’

‘Yes, that is, as well as any. He said we were to return with the means of bringing...’ The Galadhrim belatedly remembered his instructions not to say what he wanted the equipment for, ‘of carrying someone… back to the palace.’

‘A stretcher, then. If you go along this passage, pass two turns left, take the next right, that will bring you to the healing rooms; they will have something for you. Who is injured?’

‘Not injured, but… but dead. Arveldir said not to tell anyone about Glorfindel, though…’

‘What???’

‘Well, he… he killed the last of the dragons first, but we couldn’t save him,’ the other Galadhrim said, casting daggers-drawn eyes at his companion. ‘We have been sent to bring him home, in honour. And someone will need to come back with us, to show the way.’

‘I see. Very well, then. One of you go to the healing rooms, the other come with me. I am going to the administrative offices, someone there will find you an escort, I expect. I would come myself but, alas, I am halt…’

‘You are more than simply halt, Master Erestor, you are very badly injured!’ the Galadhrim who had let slip the name of Glorfindel exclaimed. ‘Why are you not with the healers?’

‘They have done what they can for me; others need them more. Well, you can at least give me your arm?'

‘Of course, of course…’

‘And what else can you tell me? Who was there with… with Glorfindel?’ 

‘The ones known as Triwathon and Parvon. Lord Arveldir. And us.’ The elf put his shoulder under Erestor’s, helping him along. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to let slip about him… you must have known him well?’

‘For a very long time, certainly.’ Erestor felt a cold wash of sorrow swirl through him. To think he would not talk to Glorfindel again, not this side of the Sundering Seas… it was somehow impossible to believe. He had to bite back a query as to how certain it was, this impossible death… ‘He could have sailed with Elrond; oh, he should have sailed…’

‘I am sorry. He seemed… fun.’

Yes. Perhaps that was what Erestor would miss most, Glorfindel’s keen sense of humour. Despite all the trauma of his past, Fin still managed, at times, to find the ridiculous and make everyone smile – including Erestor… he was a worse joker than the twins ever were, really.

‘He was, indeed. He knew the value of laughter as healing.’ 

The Galadhrim sighed. ‘I do not know if ever I shall laugh again. It was so… so awful…’

‘Yes. But you are still alive, and I am still alive, and here is the Palace Office. Help me in, I think they will not mind if I sit in that chair, there…’

The one scribe in the room rose in haste and came forward.

‘Master Erestor! Someone said that elves from Imladris were on their way, but I had not thought to see you amongst them! I do not know if you remember me, I am Merenor’s grandson, Canadion’s nephew, Faerveren…’

‘Yes, of course I remember you. Well met, Faerveren. I hope you will be able to help my friend here; he needs someone to take him, and his friend, into the forest to bring home one who cannot walk…’

‘It looks as if you should not be walking yourself! Is Lord Arveldir with you?’

‘In the forest, I understand, not injured.’

‘Good, that is good! Did anyone else come with you?’

‘Amathel and an elfling whose name I did not ask.’

‘I meant rather, how many rooms you might need? Your party, that is. When they get here.’

Erestor shook his head.

‘At present, do not worry about that. My friend here, and his friend, need their escort in haste.’

‘Yes, of course, I am sorry, you should not have to suffer a junior assistant…’ 

‘Faerveren, do not apologise… it is hardly your fault that the King’s Office is denuded today of its regular assistants… but…’

‘Yes, an escort…’ Faerveren hastily scribbled something down on a slip of paper. ‘Take this to the guardroom, continue up the corridor and the garrison quarter is on the left. Someone there will help you. When you get to the forest, make sure if you see Lord Arveldir that you tell him Master Erestor is with me, safe and well. Now, Master Erestor, would you like to come into the inner office? You will be able to rest quietly there…’

Erestor nodded. A little quiet sounded rather pleasant after all that had happened.

*

Although it was not what he wanted, Arveldir set off for the clearing where Glorfindel lay dead. Now the danger was over, Silvan signal calls were sounding through forest, some from close by, others far distant amongst the trees and Arveldir paused on his way to send out his own identifier, not really expecting to be acknowledged or sought, but to add himself, his survival, to the sounds of the forest.

But from close by, a strong and known identifier came back to him along with the signal for ‘meet’. Since he recognised the call, he returned an affirmative and within a few moments both Thiriston and his spouse came out of the undergrowth. Thiriston had a small elfling in his arms, another clung to his back, and Canadion held the hands of two more. Rivulets and streaks in the sooted faces of both warriors suggested emotions were very near the surface. With them was an ellon who clung to a stick for support and hobbled with one foot awkwardly lifted, whose shoulder was roughly bound and seeping blood. His eyes were haunted.

‘Well met, Lord Arveldir,’ Canadion said lightly, trying to smile. ‘We heard the talke that you and some of your friends were coming to save us! What news?’

‘We are safe now,’ Arveldir said firmly, hoping to reassure. ‘All the dragons are dead. Yes, fires still burn, but the danger is gone, for the most part.’

Thiriston nodded. 

‘Got some elflings here lost track of their nanas and adas,’ he said. ‘And this is Arastor, an elder from Elm. We thought the New Palace was the place to head for. What’s the bad news? You don’t wear the face of an ellon who’s celebrating victory…’

‘Ah.’ Arveldir had no wish to mention death in front of the elflings, nor could he bear to say the awful words ‘I remember Glorfindel,’ but these two warriors were old friends of the seneschal and the news needed to be told. ‘My old friend the Balrog-Slayer is now a dragon-Slayer, too. But he has… he has gone to meet with his Ecthelion… by the swiftest way possible…’

‘But… not… not? Oh.’ Canadion said. ‘How sad.’

‘Not for him,’ Thiriston said. ‘But for everyone else. Would have liked to see him again, you know. To talk.’

‘Does Triwathon know?’ Canadion asked.

‘Yes; he was there, at the end. As was I, as was Parvon.’

‘It is… it is probably good that nobody needs to break the news to the Commander, we all know how he... such friends as they were… Well.’

Arveldir nodded. Well.

‘And you are taking these little ones to the New Palace, you said?’ he asked.

‘We are indeed; we were part of the rescue company with Commander Triwathon’s guard, and heard signals in the forest where we found Elder Arastor here. As we were helping him, Captain Celeguel found us. She had these little ones with her and we offered to bring them on. Then we found another lost one, on our way. But two of them cannot walk far, as you can see by my husband’s carrying them.’

‘Let me not keep you, then. I would advise you head a little north of here, for your eyes’ sake…’

Canadion nodded.

‘Be well, Arveldir. We will look for you in the palace later. Unless you would be able to carry little Harnion here, who has a sore leg, but is being very brave, it would be very kind of you but we know you may be needed…’

Arveldir considered. To stay would be to have to return to Triwathon and Parvon and… and Glorfindel, to go would take him to shelter and possibly to Erestor. It was hardly a choice… Even so, he shook his head.

‘The news needs to spread and there may be others in the forest in need of…’

‘Harnion really needs a carry,’ Canadion said. ‘For then I could bear Alphel on my back and we would get on much quicker. And you can pick the best trail. Once in the palace, you can give more effective assistance, perhaps send out help from there?’

Arveldir crouched down to bring himself to eye level with the elflings.

‘Harnion, is it not? You may not know me, but I used to work in the King’s Office. So I would like to help you, if you will let me. May I carry you? Good.’

*

Faerveren did his best to make Erestor comfortable; he found cushions and padded a chair, put more cushions on a stool for him to rest his injured legs, found him a glass of strong spirits to sip at.

‘Emergency supplies,’ he said. ‘One of the first things Lord Arveldir told me, always make sure there is an emergency bottle of spirits somewhere in one of the desks. I prefer wine, so they trust me with it.’ He smiled. ‘Master Feren has been known to claim that in the Palace Office, everything is an emergency. You sit there and rest, and if I leave open the door, as soon as I have news, you will hear it too.’

‘And perhaps I can offer general advice, if it is needed,’ Erestor replied. ‘I do not want to be simply a bundle in the corner…’

‘Yet you are injured, you need to rest,’ Faerveren said. ‘But I am grateful, for your company and for your presence; I do not feel qualified to be on my own here under such circumstances…’

‘Ai, I know that feeling…!’ Erestor lifted his glass. ‘After the Battle of the Last Alliance, I went from being a very junior underscribe in a vast retinue of officials, to one of three left standing who had the remotest idea what was needed… those were, as they say, good times for getting on in one’s career. If one didn’t notice how many dead elves lay between one and advancement.’

‘I can imagine that would be a very sobering way to achieve promotion,’ Faerveren said. ‘Well, as I say, I will leave the door open, so if you need anything it will be easy for you to call.’

‘I am grateful.’

Erestor sighed and rested back on the chair. It really was not very comfortable, but somehow, that didn’t matter; Faerveren had tried to make it better, and the young scribe’s kindness and friendly manner was balm to his chaotic mind. He thought about Glorfindel, of how terribly his loss would be felt in Imladris, of poor Melpomaen, whose surreptitious affair with the seneschal had not gone unnoticed… he thought of carrying the news thence, and found himself hoping at least Arveldir would be by his side when that happened. 

He may have drifted, he may even have slipped into reverie, but he was suddenly hearing voices in the office; a strong, determined tone and when he looked, just visible from the angle of the door, the outline of an ellon with a despatches bag looped over his shoulder.

‘Ah, Master Faerveren, alone at last! Now can I tell you how lovely your eyes are, how much I long to show you my special games?’

‘No, I am afraid you cannot, Master Girithon, for I do not have time for any games, special or otherwise. I thank you for the intended compliment, but it is not for me. We were concerned, you are late.’

‘Delayed just as I was leaving the Old Palace, would you believe? And it was so late when I got to the villages, and they said the alarms had sounded elsewhere in the forest, so I thought I’d better hole up for the night. And then I was rousted out by one of the guard! Still, got some real news in here today, by Eru, don’t I just…?’ 

Girithon sat his haunch on Faerveren’s desk, leaning towards him. The young scribe pushed his chair away just a little and Erestor wondered if he ought to make his presence known… but it seemed that although displeased, Faerveren was not unduly threatened by the invasion of his space.

‘Then give me the missives and I will be able to…’

‘Dragons!’ Girithon lifted his hands dramatically. ‘An entire nest, no less! The Dwarves in Ered Mithrin – you know they’d spread that far? They were expanding outwards and then noticed their flocks were being attacked.’

‘Dwarves keep sheep?’ Faerveren interjected faintly. ‘In the mountains?’

‘No; goats. Well, they…’

‘Goats are kept in herds, not flocks.’

‘Whatever. These Dwarves flushed a nest of dragons; thirteen in total, they said! They killed three dragonets and drove the rest off; what do you make of that, then, nice bit of nonsense, isn’t it? They wanted our king’s help with the rest…’

‘So they left ten dragons alive? Ten?’

‘So they claim. But you know dwarves…’

‘I will have those missives, if you please. And I will want you take a message to Narunir or his second in the garrison at once.’ He scribbled a hasty note. ‘Then come back here for…’

‘Steady, there! Slow down, what is up with you, little one? Do…?’

‘My title,’ Faerveren said stiffly, ‘is Master Faerveren. Did not you notice anything when you arrived? Did you hear nothing?’

‘Well, I couldn’t see the reason for an armed escort, it was a bit off-putting to be fair, but nobody was talking… and you all look a bit flustered, but it’s getting towards Yule, must be a lot…’

‘There are dragons in the forest, Girithon; the outlying villages have been under attack and now you come in with this tale and call it nonsense?’

‘Really? Dragons, really? It’s true, then?’ Girithon shrugged. ‘Glad I’m under cover here after all. And don’t worry; I’ll make sure you’re safe, Master Penneth Faerveren…’

‘From the tales I hear, nobody is safe with you!’ Faerveren said. ‘You can move off my desk, give me those missives and then tell someone in Narunir’s command that Commander Triwathon has been fighting ten dragons and to send as many warriors as he can spare to support him. Then come back here. Hasten, go!’

Girithon shook his head, but obeyed.

‘All right! No need to be so uptight… I have a solution for that, by the way…’

‘I do not want your solutions, I want my instructions following. Thank you.’ 

Faerveren took the offered message pouch and paid no more attention to the messenger elf who shrugged and headed for the corridor.

‘I will be back,’ he said from the doorway.

‘Yes, do so, for there will be messages to take to the Old Palace immediately…’

Erestor knew the moment Girithon was really gone from the way the scribe sighed and dropped his head in his hands.

‘Are you well, Faerveren?’ he called through.

‘Master Erestor, I am sorry if that exchange disturbed you.’ The scribe came out from behind his desk to stand in the doorway. ‘Girithon is one of the messengers; he seems unable to confine his remarks to matters of business, however…’

‘Forgive me, but he sounded to be making quite specific advances which were unwelcome?’

‘Unwelcome, indeed! I have no time for his sort… I do not mean,’ Faerveren went on quickly, for Erestor’s eyes had hardened. ‘I do not mean those who make atypical connections – but that Girithon’s tastes are… unconventional within that. I would find them distressing, distasteful. So I do all I can to discourage him, and to not let my own preferences be widely known.’

‘Ah, I see. Your confidence honours me. And he is coming back?’

‘If he does not, I shall have him on a report for neglecting orders; he is already suspected of deliberately delaying on the road…’

‘Would you help me up, Faerveren? If I would not be in your way, I can settle equally easily in a corner of the main office with you. That way, you will not be alone – Girithon will see you are not alone – when he returns.’

‘You would do so?’ Faerveren’s face lightened. ‘I am very grateful! For though I am not as handsome as the other ellyn of my family, still I seem to attract attention…’

‘Your father is Melion, is he not?’ Erestor asked as Faerveren supported him from the side office. ‘You mentioned your uncle Canadion, and your Daerada Merenor… You have a look of him, you know. About the eyes. But then, it is always about the eyes with the Merenorion. And his grandchildren too, it seems.’ He smiled as Faerveren helped him to a seat and fetched the cushions to pad around him. ‘My thanks; that is very comfortable.’

‘You heard, of course? The Dwarves have sprung these dragons on us! But the number is known, at least.’

‘The Dwarves may not have realised, perhaps, that there are elves living in this part of Eryn Lasgalen,’ Erestor said as he arranged himself in the chair. ‘I doubt that the Elvenking lets them know all his business.’

‘No, indeed! Our two peoples understand each other so badly, even now, that it is simplest often to say less rather than more. If you will excuse me, I must attend to these messages in full.’

‘Of course, Faerveren.’

Erestor settled back in his seat, another glass of emergency spirits at his side. Arveldir was safe, and that was the important thing. Now all he had to do was wait for him.


	12. A Broken Seal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faerveren is concerned about the integrity of the messages...

Knowing it was likely to be at least an hour before the stretcher party returned, Parvon filled the time by trying to tidy the area while Triwathon kept watch over Glorfindel’s remains. He tugged the slain dragonet to the edge of the clearing, dragged the dead dam, inch by inch, away from Glorfindel. It was a struggle, for by nature he was slight and not as tall as most Silvans, but it was worth the effort for the privacy it provided Triwathon, creating a little space in which he might think all his sad thoughts and cry silently over the body of his former lover. At one point Parvon left the clearing altogether, returning a little while later with clean hands and a filled water bottle, although the Commander hadn’t seemed to notice his absence.

‘Triwathon, you should drink a little. And the stream is not far, if you want to wash your hands and face; I will sit with him for you.’

‘Yes, I suppose I… Listen!’ Triwathon said, looking about. ‘That’s Celeguel’s call… I do not know if we should…’

‘No, neither do I. To answer would bring her and how she would react… and it could summon others, too…’

The Commander gently released Glorfindel from his arms and set him down as carefully as if he were still alive, as if it still mattered. It did, of course.

‘I will not leave you long, Glorfindel,’ he said quietly. ‘And Parvon will stay with you while I am gone…. Will you not, Parvon?’

‘Of course I will.’

When Triwathon returned a few moments later he looked calmer, a little cleaner. His clothes were still smeared with soot and he was covered in blood from where he had cradled his dead friend, and there was a terrible fragility in his eyes, but his emotions were under control.

‘I could have carried him home, Parvon,’ he said. ‘We would be there by now.’

Parvon doubted it; Triwathon was trembling with exhaustion and distress and the chance of him being able to carry Glorfindel any distance seemed remote. Instead of saying so, however, he took a different tack.

‘And what would that have looked like, may I ask? People here admire you, respect you and such an action would make them look at you askance; everyone knows you and Glorfindel were close, but they had thought you had both allowed your affair to fade into friendship. To carry him in would make you seem a lovesick youngling, and they would think you weak, just when they need you to be strong. I am sorry; I know you loved each other and I do not mean to disrespect your closeness. But the people need you now, Commander Triwathon, we must stand together, you and I, and bring our people through this terrible time; neither of us can afford to show our softer side, not where it will be misinterpreted by frightened elves.’

Triwathon sighed.

‘You are right, of course, Parvon; you are always right.’

‘Sometimes I would prefer to be wrong, my friend.’

Celeguel’s call sounded again and Triwathon got to his feet and sent out his own identifier.

‘Celeguel was a friend of Glorfindel’s. I will not leave her whistling alone in the forest.’

Parvon nodded, and went to the edge of the clearing whence had sounded Celeguel’s signal. When she dropped down through the trees a few moments later, therefore, it was Parvon she saw first, and not the dead Balrog-Slayer.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked, and Parvon bowed his head.

‘I remember Glorfindel,’ he said, the traditional Silvan way of announcing a death. 

‘What? Oh, I did not even know he was here… Triwathon…?’

Yes. This was how it would be; every time Glorfindel’s death was mentioned, Triwathon’s name would follow, for it was no secret that the two had been close not so very long ago, and nobody would stop to consider Parvon’s feelings on the matter. But he set the thought aside and nodded.

‘He was with him, at the end; the dragons are all dead, at least.’

‘That’s good, at least, that’s good news.’ Celeguel nodded to herself and followed Parvon into the glade. ‘Commander… I remember Glorfindel. He was a hero to many, but he was also our friend.’

‘Captain Celeguel. You are uninjured?’

She shrugged.

‘Mostly, Commander. If you wish, I have a report for you.’

‘Proceed.’

‘Fires are coming under control around Beech and Oak villages; the settlements proper are still burning, however. I regret to report several known deaths, many elves missing in the confusion – but it is to be hoped they are merely lost and will be able to make their way to the New Palace. I found several elflings who had become separated from their families and gave them into the care of Canadion and Thiriston. There are two scouting parties out in the woods looking for survivors, and Calithilon reported having encountered two Galadhrim who were escorting a company of injured Silvans to safety earlier. The Galadhrim said Arveldir, Erestor and… and Glorfindel were in their party, so…’

‘Thank you, Celeguel.’ Triwathon managed a tight, formal smile of acknowledgement. ‘Arveldir was here when Glorfindel died – his wisdom will help us greatly in the days that follow. Erestor I saw briefly, when we all met up, but not since…’

‘I will keep watch for him as I go; Arveldir will be anxious. Sir, do you need help here? I could sit with the fallen should you need to be elsewhere…’

It was a good and sensible suggestion, but Triwathon shook his head.

‘No, Celeguel, but I am grateful. We expect a stretcher party soon. I suggest you head back to the palace, pass on your report to Narunir and make sure it is known that the dragons are dead and now we must simply douse the flames, lick our wounds, honour our dead and rebuild.’

Celeguel nodded.

‘You make it sound so straightforward,’ she said. ‘And, indeed, if anyone can hold us together, it is you, and Parvon. Sir – make sure you take time for yourself. If you fail, we will all fail.’

*

‘I think she meant to be encouraging,’ Parvon said when Celeguel had gone.

‘No doubt.’ Triwathon’s smile was wan. His eyes were drawn to Glorfindel once more, and he sat beside the fallen warrior and began to untangle his hair from the twisted bun at the back of his head. ‘What do you think he was doing with his hair so untidy? Glorfindel never bundles his hair up in such a mess…!’

‘Perhaps to get it out of the way. If he knew there were dragons, and with his history…’

‘It does not suit him; it is wrong, Parvon, it…’ Triwathon heard the edge of hysteria in his voice and he shook his head. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps I am tired. But… I should like to tidy him.’

‘When we get him home, Triwathon,’ Parvon said. ‘I will help you, if you wish, or I will stand outside the door if you want privacy to attend him alone. For now, though, we should leave him as he is.’

*

Erestor sat in Faerveren’s office and made himself useful by compiling a list of those elves who had safely attained the sanctuary of the New Palace while the young scribe read through the missives. After a very few moments, he thought he heard a suppressed expletive and lifted his head.

‘Is there something amiss, Faerveren?’ he asked.

‘It is only… I must make certain… but I think… it must be a mistake, my imagination, but would you check something for me?’ Faerveren brought the messages over. ‘Now, you see, all were sealed up in the same folded sheet – it is our practice, the latest message is the outermost… but the wax seal has been broken and then resealed after. You can see the outer message mentions dragons here… and dwarves…’

‘Yes, I do see that.’

‘There was one other message inside, to do with our king’s journey to Ithilien which was folded and tied, but not sealed with wax; in it, the king says that in the light of this news he will not go, lest he is needed, and he awaits our acknowledgement of the information. But this message is dated later than the outer sheet, where the date is, to be frank, ambiguous and may even have been written over, which is not policy, all mistakes are left and corrected beneath… it suggests that the two were written almost at the same time, the king’s note being too small to serve as the outer cover. I must ask, am I mistaken, in your opinion, or do you concur with my findings?’

‘If that is your system… I cannot see the point in sending separate messages, and yes, the date on the king’s message is clear while that of the outer sheet is not… the seal is undoubtedly broken, but it could be because the message was sealed before the inner letter was ready to send, which also would explain why it was innermost… I am sure you have a reason for asking…?’

‘Usually, when a seal must be broken and remade, it is imprinted a second time so it is obvious that no tampering has taken place. The date on the king’s letter is five days ago. He would have wanted the message bringing as soon as possible, I am certain he would have impressed the need for haste on the bearer. I am not sure if you know, but a person on foot can cover the ground between the Old Palace and the New in three days at a push, on horseback, two… we should have had warning days ago! Ai, can you imagine…? The Commander would have been able to evacuate all the talain towns, and have the guard ready… we would have been prepared, our people need not have died…’

_…Glorfindel need not have died…_

Erestor swallowed his dismay and examined the missives.

‘I… can only agree, that is what it looks like here. But wait, I beg, ask Arveldir, ask your Master Parvon, oh, it would be just too, too dreadful if this is all the fault of some messenger who dallied on the way…’

‘But it would be well within the moral compass of Master Girithon to disregard the importance of his messages and waste time in idling… we were expecting a messenger yesterday, I mentioned to Narunir, for I was concerned… I also have word from Acting Commander Narunir that Girithon was seen about the near villages the day before yesterday…’ Faerveren shook his head. ‘Of course I will speak to my superiors before I make any accusations. I… oh, but this is terrible, terrible. Even had the messenger arrived when expected, between the daymeal and supper, there would have been time to send out the warriors to the villages, to begin an evacuation, but… And we are to just set this aside and I am to get on with my work as if…?’ Faerveren sighed. ‘Yes, I am supposed to do exactly that; this is the Office of the New Palace and I am its servant. Once I am finished for the day, then I will respond like an ellon, not a scribe. Master Erestor, I beg your pardon, but this has been a little shock… do you wish me to find a room where you may rest so that you are spared my nonsense?’

‘In fact, Faerveren, I would rather be busy and have company while I wait for news of my husband. If not you, then I fear the newly dead will be my companions in thought, and I am not yet ready for that.’

‘Thank you, Master. I must admit I would prefer not to be alone at present.’

So Erestor was there in the Palace Office when Elrohir and Rusdir came with news of their escape and journey, and duly noted the names of all the elves and elflings escorted in with their party. He also noted that Rusdir’s sister had not been named, but forbore to ask for details. It was a subdued reunion with Elrohir, of course, especially when he mentioned – as he felt he must – that Glorfindel had fallen. He was there to smile at Celeguel and tell her he was pleased to see her again, although not under such circumstances, and to pat her shoulder as she floundered into tears.

‘You haven’t had your injuries dressed yet, have you?’ he said gently. ‘Perhaps you should go to see Healer Mae. She will help you.’

‘I was… in the forest… Triwathon and Parvon and… and Glorfindel is…’

‘I know, it is terrible. I do not know what we will do without him; Imladris will never be the same. But he will be with his Ecthelion, so we should not feel too badly about him.’

‘It is hard, though,’ she said and, yes, it was hard for Silvans who would never sail, but his heart lifted suddenly and there in the doorway was his husband, carrying an elfling.

‘Erestor, I am glad to find you well enough to be working – you are well enough, I take it, I heard you were hurt?’

‘I have had my injury tended to, my dear, and I would rather be useful. Faerveren here has been kind enough to set me to making lists, and so may I ask the name of your young companion?’

‘This is Harnion. I am on my way to Healer Maereth with him but I heard the rumour that you were here and wanted to be sure of it first.’

Faerveren vacated his seat.

‘My lord Arveldir, if you like, I will take the elfling along to the healers, and on my return bespeak some refreshments for you,’ he offered. ‘There is a matter on which your advice would be most helpful but until then, please, do sit; I will find you an emergency restorative…’

‘Ah, I do like the sound of that!’ Arveldir smiled. ‘Well, if you will not mind carrying young Harnion here… Captains Thiriston and Canadion say he has been very brave.’

Faerveren saw Arveldir supplied with spirits, topped up Erestor’s goblet, and left with the elfling in his arms. Sighing, Arveldir reached for Erestor’s hand.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I was most anxious when we were separated.’

‘As I was for you. Even though I have heard the tally of the dragons – nine juveniles and the one adult. Do you know, the Dwarves chased them out of their new lands, or suchlike, and sent them on to us? I am sure Thranduil will not be happy when he hears the tale…’

‘Ah, that is Dwarves for you; whether they mean to or not, they always cause confusion… but you are safe. I find that is the most important thing in my heart at the moment. You are writing a list of survivors? I met with many in the forest, let me give you more names…’


	13. Girithon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon's quiet time with Glorfindel is interrupted...

Dawn had broken over the forest as they brought Glorfindel in through the garrison gates, hunters and guards lining the courtyard and corridors, standing silent as the bier went past with Triwathon and Parvon walking at its side. A murmur followed as those standing by recognised the golden hair, realised who had died in their forests that morning. 

Rather than lay Glorfindel beside the other fallen Silvans, Parvon had sent ahead requesting a separate room be made available in the garrison, and Captain Narunir had seen it done; a chamber on the outer edge of the barracks, intended as a briefing room but presently unoccupied, had been readied to receive the Balrog-slayer’s remains. A long table and chairs, a pitcher and ewer, cloths and bindings lay ready for proper preparation of the body, for, of course, everyone would want to pay their respects.

Glorfindel was placed reverentially on the table, the Galadhrim who had carried him bowing gracefully as they retreated. Outside, it seemed the entire garrison was gathered, waiting to hear the story behind this sad arrival.

Parvon addressed them.

‘We need a few moments, and then we will ask for volunteers to sit with the fallen while we attend to pressing business. We thank you for the honour you offer Glorfindel, Seneschal of Rivendell, Balrog-Slayer and now Dragon-Slayer, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin.’

Inclining his head to them, he shut the door in their faces and went to where Triwathon was standing beside his dead friend. He was crying again, silently, tears making silver runnels down his face.

Parvon knew better than to tell him not to weep. Instead, he put his arm around Triwathon’s shoulders for a moment in a gentle, non-intrusive squeeze.

‘I am sorry for your pain, Triwathon,’ he said. ‘So brave and honourable an ellon, so good a friend… I could not help liking him.’

‘Parvon, he… oh… what will we do now?’

‘We will tidy him a little. Just a little, for there is not time to properly wash and dress him, not yet. But we will make him look more comfortable. And then we will do what we must for the palace while the guards pay their respects. Would you permit me to help?’

Triwathon nodded.

‘He would be honoured, I am sure. Oh, Parvon…!’

The advisor took cloths and a bowl of water to the side of Glorfindel’s table, began to wash the blood from his face and hands.

‘It is difficult to shake the sense that something bigger than Glorfindel has ended today; he was so much a part of this world for so long and now… ‘ Parvon sighed. We Silvans, we never thought what we would do when all the other elves sailed, or died, but now I begin to see how terribly, terribly lonely we will be, even in our forest.’

Triwathon untangled Glorfindel’s golden hair from its untidy bun and began to comb it through with his fingers.

‘To me, it seems he was the Third Age… I know, they say that of other elves, and I know he was here in the Second Age, but for me, he is the one… I loved him, Parvon, and now he is dead, and…’

‘He loved you, and he will not be dead forever. We know this. True, unless we sail, we are unlikely to meet again, but that is our choice, our Silvan choice.’

‘I do not think I will ever sail. Not… not even for Glorfindel.’

Parvon nodded. It would have been easy to point out that Glorfindel has his fëa-mate waiting in Valinor and Triwathon might not exactly be welcome if a reunion were ever to come to pass, but he was not entirely sure that the Commander’s feelings for the Balrog-Slayer had worked themselves out yet, and it would have been unkind.

‘He would not expect you to go against your beliefs and wishes just for him. There, he looks more at ease now. Later, there will be time to properly prepare him, dress him in the garments he used to favour, bind or cover his injuries. But for now, the guard will wish to pay their respects…’

‘Yes, they know what death looks like. They will honour him the more for seeing him as he lies in his injuries.’

He wiped his hands absently and went to the door.

‘Volunteers, please, two to stand watch on the door while the guard remember him, and two to sit with Glorfindel who killed the last of the dragons for us. Yes, thank you. We will be back later to tend him, once the palace is secured. If you need me, send to the Palace Office; if I am not there, someone there will be able to locate me.’

The Commander set off through the garrison, his back rigid, his pace swift, locked in iron control. At his side, Parvon moved with equal speed and solemnity, giving dignity to Triwathon’s silent grief, the two making their way into the corridors and passages of the New Palace proper. A sudden ringing caused Triwathon to halt and shake his head.

‘They are calling breakfast? It cannot be!’

‘What, we cannot hold breakfast because of this disaster?’

‘No, simply the hour must be wrong; surely it is far later… I do not understand how it cannot be later…’

‘I know. So much has happened; there has not been time for everything, has there? Will you go to your quarters and eat there? I am going to the King’s Office, of course, if you want to be on hand, we can ask for food there…’

‘Yes, that will be best… but I do not think I could eat…’

‘You should try. Take some water and lembas, if nothing more. Our people will need you strong, Commander.’

*

Arveldir greeted them when they arrived at the King’s Office.

‘Although this is your place, Parvon, forgive me. I understand Faerveren is busy organising accommodations for those elves who have come in from the damaged villages; he said he would have food sent in for us. Erestor has been listing those elves we know to be safe, but there are too many gaps. Commander, will you not sit?’

Triwathon nodded and sank into the nearest chair, rubbing his face with his hands.

‘Thank you, that’s what we need, to be able to account for everyone,’ Parvon said. ‘There will be many elves misplaced, if nothing more… I do not suppose anyone knows how the healers are coping…?’

‘Healer Maereth tended to me when I came in,’ Erestor said. ‘She and her team were pressed for space, but were keeping up with the number of casualties,’ Erestor paused. ‘She was very kind.’

‘Yes, Mae is one of the best,’ Triwathon said. ‘So, we will need…’

‘We will need to consider whose responsibilities lie where, Commander,’ Parvon said. ‘The Palace Office will deal with matters pertaining to civilians, the garrison to those of security. Respectfully, do not try to take charge of everything, we are not at war, we are – now – clearing up after a series of natural disasters. I would say, largely, your work is done, mellon-nin, at least for the moment. Come through to the inner office, you too, Erestor, Arveldir. Somewhere there is an emergency bottle…’

Erestor reached down behind the desk and retrieved the bottle of spirits.

‘We have had several emergencies already, Parvon, as you see.’

‘Yes, indeed. Well, go through; I would appreciate a full account, if you can, of how things have been here.’

*

The morning passed in a stuttering of events as more refugees came in and needed to see the healers, or rooms finding for them, their names put on the lists that now were being copied and posted at every entrance and crossing of corridors. There were more important things to do, perhaps, but those who had been on difficult tasks found a little peace in the simplicity of copying names for half an hour, and could then return to organising the palace somewhat refreshed.

Triwathon returned to his office in the garrison where he read documents, issued orders, listened to reports, and generally tried to maintain morale amongst his command. Having him there seemed to steady the rest of the company, so that the guards stood straighter, braced their shoulders back, believed they could weather the present storm. He tried not to dwell on the fact that a few doors away, Glorfindel was lying in state, cold and dead. For him, it was over.

Indeed, it was over for everyone, except for the cleaning up.

Except for the cleaning up. And the burials. Triwathon sighed. Not just Glorfindel, not only Rusdir’s sister, but others, too. Seven now lay at rest in the Quiet Room near the healers’ chambers, Canadion and Triwathon had reported two bodies in the forest, others told of elves attacked, or burned… that it could have been worse was no comfort to those who had lost husbands, wives, parents, lovers, that none of his guard had died during the rescue operations was a relief; it meant he did not need to feel guilty, his orders had not sent any to their death.

With a sigh he turned to the task of formally committing the events of the night to a document for carriage to the Old Palace, trying to be objective, impassive, to keep the horror from the words, making a point of mentioning those who had volunteered their services, praising the courage of his troops and, finally, mentioning the part played by Glorfindel of Imladris in eradicating the dragons.

There was more he could say, but much would be covered by the Palace Office; this was meant to be a tactical report on the actions of his troops.

A knock on his door, and his second was there.

‘Commander? Word has come that all the fires are out, and teams of volunteers are bringing home any remaining fallen.’

‘Thank you. Take over for me here; I’m going to speak with the King’s Office again. We will need to arrange a message to the Old Palace…’

‘Oh, the messenger came in this morning; he’s around somewhere. I will have that sent to the Palace Office for him, shall I, save you the task?’

Triwathon paused to consider. Parvon’s words about whose responsibilities lay where had rankled a little; he had only been trying to offer the support of the garrison, not attempt to take the New Palace under his orders, and so perhaps he would do well to keep away from the Palace Office for a little longer…

‘Do so. My thanks.’

*

Faerveren, back on duty in the outer office, was glad there was a desk between himself and Girithon, for the messenger was no better behaved than he had been on his first visit.

‘I take it you are here to collect the messages for the Old Palace?’

‘In fact, I was here to collect you for the afternoon… I have found the perfect place…’

‘Girithon, I must insist that you confine yourself to matters of work; I have no interest and I am, in fact, busy… now, these are to go immediately, and you will need to return to the garrison, for I am fairly sure that Commander Triwathon has a missive to add…’

‘Now, don’t be like that! It’s been a long ride…’

‘I am sure it has, from the length of time it has taken you.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Too late Faerveren remembered he had yet to confirm his suspicions with another member of the Palace Office; now was not the time for accusations without proof. He pushed out from behind his desk and stalked to the main office door, holding it open.

‘Good day, Girithon! You will probably find the Commander in his office.’

Erestor called out from the inner study.

‘Is all well, Faerveren?’

‘Yes, just that messenger again! Honestly, I do not know why we employ him…’

‘We do so in order to keep track of him,’ Arveldir said, leaving the inner office. ‘He has made a nuisance of himself more than once and short of imprisoning him, or exiling him, this was the best alternative, I seem to remember. Make sure you officially report his behaviour to Parvon when he returns; you will not been seen as complaining, it is important that such as he do not get away with their unpleasant words and suggestions.’

‘Or you could just tell your honour-uncle Thiriston,’ Erestor suggested. ‘I am sure he would be delighted to point out to Girithon that such ways of speaking are very ill-mannered.’

Faerveren grinned suddenly.

‘You know, I think I might just do that,’ he said. ‘If it were not for the other matter…’

‘There is another matter?’ Arveldir asked swiftly.

‘Yes; I need to lay it before Master Parvon before anything can be done…’

‘Lay what before me, Master Faerveren? Is all well?’

Parvon had entered the outer office and when the junior scribe turned, he was surprised by the relief in in Faerveren’s eyes.

‘In fact, not really, there are… well, I will present you the evidence and you may draw your own conclusions…’

‘Before we go into that,’ Erestor called through, ‘I feel it my duty to point out that earlier today I witnessed the messenger, Girithon, making inappropriate and unwelcome advances towards your scribe…’

‘Thank you,’ Faerveren said. ‘But that is less important than this matter…’

‘I should dearly like to know what this matter is, Faerveren,’ Parvon said, trying to be patient for his junior had been under rather a lot of pressure and deserved some forbearance, ‘if it can be worse than Girithon…’

‘If I hand to you the missives brought, perhaps Master Erestor would tell you my concerns more objectively than I…?’

‘Gladly,’ Erestor called through. ‘In fact, I think Master Faerveren has a strong point…’

* 

For all Triwathon had said he would be available, the Commander was not to be found. Not in the Palace Office, nor his own office. Servants said he was not in his quarters, nor had he been heard of in the healers’ rooms or the adjacent Quiet Room laid aside for the Silvan dead. He had last been seen a little while after the daymeal near the outer doors, and some speculated he had gone into the forest to look for the sites where the dragons had carried the elves their prey, but none of the door wardens could confirm having seen him.

But the fact was that Triwathon had needed to be with Glorfindel, and so he turned his back on work and retreated to the room where he lay in state. He nodded to the guards on duty outside – Thiriston and Canadion had been taking a turn – with thanks. Something about his attitude made Thiriston take the liberty of patting his shoulder.

‘Won’t mention we’ve seen you for an hour or so,’ he said. ‘You look like you need a bit of time.’

Triwathon nodded, moved by the unexpected sympathy.

Alone with Glorfindel, he took a seat beside him and dropped his head into his hands. This was not supposed to have happened, it wasn’t right, wasn’t fair! Glorfindel had already died horribly once; that it should happen again, and to save him, his Silvans… it was too much… and then, although they had spoken of their affair being over – and it was, it had been, it was time… even so, the feelings Triwathon had harboured for the golden-haired hero were still there, only just beginning to fade…

He sat in misery for what felt like hours before something, some warrior instinct alerted him and he looked up, wiping his eyes. To be found like this by anyone other than Parvon would be unbecoming…

A knock at the door and it opened to show an ellon in messenger garb.

‘Do I intrude?’ he said. ‘Girithon, on my way with messages for the Old Palace, Commander. I was told you might have something for me?’

‘All messages to the Old Palace are sent to the Palace Office for collection, Girithon, including my own.’

‘Of course.’ Girithon glanced into the corridor behind him and shut himself in the chamber with Triwathon. ‘You look sad, Commander. I’m sorry to see it and I’m sure your dear friend would be sorry also.’

‘…what?’ Triwathon managed.

‘I always admired the Balrog-Slayer, of course,’ the messenger said. ‘I’m older than you, well, older than many, truth to tell, and so I’ve heard his stories forever. Not just about Old Gondolin, but the Last Alliance… he knew how to walk through death, that one.’

‘What do you want?’ Triwathon asked. 

Girithon approached, reached out with certainty and pulled him to his feet, shock making Triwathon unable to resist, to form a proper protest.

‘It’s more a case of what you want, Triwathon… I know how it is, times like this, people die, others live, and we have to mark it, to make it real, show ourselves we’re not dead yet. To be frank, Commander, we need to lose ourselves in the animal side of our natures, to prove we’re still here, we need to connect, to fuck and be fucked, as the humans say… you look shocked, penneth, I’m sure you’ve heard the words before. They’re the only ones fitting, really, for the raw power of what you need. I know the look in your eye, I know the need for more than just the release…’ 

Girithon placed his hands on Triwathon’s shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. Triwathon gulped. How could this ellon know, how could he guess that what Triwathon wanted more than anything was the chance to lose himself, to be lost in physical sensation? It was what he had done after his best friend had died, sought solace with another, and it had worked, at first, and then Glorfindel had rescued him from his despair and self-loathing and now Glorfindel, too, was dead and who was there now…?

‘…It has to be hard, and fast, and brutal, because death is brutal, and life is brutal, and afterwards you won’t be able to look me in the eye, but that’s all right, it won’t matter, you will know, and I will know that I pulled you back from the brink, that you feel this death was your fault and you need to feel it every way you can…’

No. No, this wasn’t right, that wasn’t how it was meant to be, but somehow Girithon had his hands around Triwathon’s neck, around his throat, was holding tight and leaning in as if he was about to kiss him and… no, not with Glorfindel here, it would be wrong, it wasn’t what he wanted anyway, but Girithon was so strong and the hands closing over the blood vessels on either side of his neck and Triwathon walking, being pushed backwards, everything going faint and dizzy and through it all the rough, mannish words, Girithon talking of fuck and fucking and something was wrong because in spite of everything his loins were quickening and if he didn’t stop this he would be hard and desperate and it disgusted him that his body would betray him so, and there was only Girithon but the ellon was repulsive even as he was compelling and the hands around his throat squeezing and releasing just enough to keep him conscious and…

Click.


	14. The Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an unfortunate incident takes place...

It didn’t take long for Parvon to grasp exactly what Faerveren had meant. He frowned down at the documents.

‘The date has been changed to make it appear that the messenger set out later than he actually did, no doubt to give him time to dally in the villages. But he neglected to look at the inner sheet since usual policy puts the latest page on the outside, and therefore we have clear evidence that this message – stating the king will remain in the Old Palace until the threat is resolved – was sent at least five days ago. There can be no doubt and…’

Parvon broke off and he looked at his friends and colleagues, his eyes filling suddenly.

‘Oh, sweet Eru, those little orphaned elflings, their parents treated as prey, the trees, burned… Glorfindel of Imladris slain and all because Girithon delayed on the road… surely he must have known what was in the document…?’

‘He did indeed know the contents,’ Faerveren said. ‘He made a point of telling me how Dain’s people had disturbed a nest of dragons, he treated it as a joke… do not doubt he was aware of the danger.’ 

‘I, too, heard Girithon talking of dragons,’ Erestor said.

‘Elves have died!’ Parvon said, ‘This is treason, or at least kinslaying by dereliction of duty; it must be dealt with at the highest level… ’

‘You have a jail here?’ Arveldir asked. 

‘We do, although we have never needed to use it as such before,’ Parvon sighed. ‘We must get a message to the king as soon as possible – we can send a goshawk, and I’ll ride myself, if I must, with word to the Old Palace. I must alert the guard to watch for Girithon and restrain him on sight...’

‘He is due to return here to collect the outward missives; we will detain him then if nothing else,’ Arveldir said.

Parvon nodded and sat down to compose a brief summary of events on a small piece of parchment: _“Dragon attack, wyrms all slain but many dead and injured, trees burned, warning came late. Courier follows.”_

‘Faerveren, see this is sent as soon as possible by goshawk.’

‘Perhaps you should also see if you can find someone fit and willing to ride to the Old Palace in haste,’ Arveldir said. ‘Parvon, there are too many people here who will look to you for guidance; I am not sure you can be spared.’

‘Very well, Faerveren, I know I can trust you to find a reliable courier. And I am grateful.’ Parvon lifted his head suddenly, listening more than just his ears. Suddenly he felt profoundly troubled and could not say why… ‘Arveldir, would you mind adding an update to the missives? Girithon’s perfidy must be made known.’

‘Of course, Parvon. But…’

‘I must go, I have urgent business elsewhere, I am sorry.’

*

Leaving the Palace Office, Parvon hastened towards the garrison, trying to understand his sudden dread. Triwathon; something was niggling at the back of his mind and he realised he was anxious about the Commander, anxious in an unthinking, automatic way, his fëa was responding. But what could possibly be wrong now?

Although he enquired several times on the way, nobody seemed to know where the Commander was. But it was a fair guess that he would be with the Hero of Gondolin. Approaching the chamber, he was both annoyed and worried to find nobody on guard outside.

‘Where is the honour guard?’ he demanded of the duty officer. ‘Where is the watch?’

‘Captains Thiriston and Canadion were needed by healer Maereth,’ the duty sergeant told him. ‘The elflings feel safe with them, she said.’

‘And you did not set other sentries in their place?’ Parvon’s tone was harsh as he bit back the fear that suddenly rose up and gibbered in his mind.

‘I was not ordered to, Master Parvon. Besides, as the room is empty, what need for a guard?’

‘The room is not empty,’ Parvon snapped, losing patience. ‘It holds the body of one of the Firstborn, the Hero of Gondolin, who died for us, for our elflings and our families, and the guard is there to honour his sacrifice.’

Shaking his head, he opened the door and tried to calm himself as he stepped inside.

The scene before his eyes shocked and horrified him. He had found Triwathon, yes, but there was the messenger, Girithon, too, and he was… was… had one hand around Triwathon’s throat, the other pawing at his garments and Triwathon, he was permitting…

No. Triwathon would not do that, would not willingly allow anyone to do such things, not with Glorfindel’s remains there at his side; this was forced on him, he was being attacked, molested, the dread Parvon had felt in his fëa attested to that…

Parvon closed the door with a click, crossing the space in a heartbeat. He reached out and grabbed Girithon’s single travelling braid, wrapping it around his hand as he heaved with all his strength and loathing, and when the messenger lost his grip on Triwathon and was forced to turn, he slammed his fist into Girithon’s face, sending him spinning away. The elf skidded on a damp patch on the stone floor and connected with the wall with a disturbing crack, sliding to the floor where he lay in an untidy, unmoving heap.

*

Click.

The sound registered in Triwathon’s fading consciousness, but not the import. 

Then Girithon was pulled away and he was released. He fell back against the wall, gasping and coughing, his sight singing and pocked with lights as the blood flowed back and he began to see and hear properly again. 

‘Come, Triwathon, let me help you there.’ Parvon put a gentle arm under the Commander’s shoulder and supported him across to the chair near Glorfindel’s bier. ‘Take a seat. There. I am sorry I did not get here sooner… he was annoying poor Faerveren earlier, but I hardly expected him to take such liberties with you.’

‘I… what you must think…’

‘I think Girithon deserves to be exiled somewhere he might meet with a fatal accident, so that Lord Námo can keep him out of the way of decent elves. Has he harmed you? Are you injured? You are hurt, I am sure…’

Triwathon shook his head mutely, but ran his fingers around his throat. ‘No, I don’t… dirty, I feel dirty, Parvon, and it was my fault, and… he… and Glorfindel, it would have been…’

‘Once we have Girithon taken care of we can return to your quarters and I will wait outside while you use the washing cascade. You will feel better then.’

‘I am such a fool, I… how did you know?’

‘Ah.’ Parvon gave a small, sad smile. ‘Yes, how indeed? Not to bring up old issues, but you know I have feelings for you. My fëa was anxious suddenly, and I felt something was threatening you. When I found myself outside the room, I knew you were in danger.’

‘I am most grateful, Parvon…’

‘Do not mention it, that’s what friends are for. And console yourself with the knowledge that since I felt your fear, I know you did not in any way invite Girithon’s advances. He will say, perhaps, that he was trying to help you up after you had collapsed. I do not understand why there was no-one on duty outside?’

‘Thiriston and Canadion were there. Healer Maereth asked for them, Canadion offered to stay, I said they could both go. It wasn’t meant to take long. Nobody knew I was in here, I didn’t want to be seen so I didn’t send to the guard room, after all, the guard is to keep Glorfindel company and I was here, he wasn’t alone…’

The Commander offered a wan smile. Parvon sighed out a breath, trying to expel his anger. Typical of Triwathon, of course, not to see himself as vulnerable and no point remonstrating with him. 

‘I doubt Girithon will admit he attacked you, a shameful thing to do at any time but particularly vile under the present circumstances; I saw his hands around your throat, Commander…’

‘It really wasn’t like that, he…’

Triwathon’s voice faltered. What had it been, then, if not an attack? He had protested, tried to, but why had he not pushed Girithon away, it was not as if he were a weakling, and the messenger…

‘He is in trouble anyway. The Palace Office found the missives he conveyed had been tampered with, the seal broken, the date on one letter changed. We should have had the news of the dragons days ago, it does not bear thinking about – but my current point is that Girithon will be held and charged with treason.’ Parvon shook his head. ‘No doubt he realised that we would discover his deception and he was looking for a place to hide. That you were here was…unfortunate. Perhaps he thought if you felt compromised, he could use you to exonerate him.’

‘That would never happen,’ Triwathon said, his voice rasping and husky. ‘Even if we… he had… I will not let him use it to escape justice.’

‘Well, if you are feeling better, I will get someone to take Girithon to the cells and someone else to keep Lord Glorfindel company. Sit there quietly, Commander.’

Parvon went to the door and summoned the guard he had spoken to earlier. 

‘Go at once to Healer Maereth and tell her we need Captain Thiriston here immediately. Nobody else will suffice. She may have him back presently.’

‘Is there a problem, Master Parvon?’

Parvon refrained himself and gave the barest of the facts. 

‘In fact, the room was not empty. The messenger Girithon, currently suspected of treason, had found his way in.’

Belatedly realising that someone was likely to be in trouble and he’d rather it wasn’t him, and that Thiriston wasn’t part of the garrison and therefore more likely to get away with just a minor reprimand, the guard pulled himself up smartly.

‘Oh. I will fetch him, then. Shocking that he did not make sure his post was filled...’

‘Someone has failed in their watch, certainly, Captain. Please hurry.’

Parvon returned to the chamber, standing by the door and looking down his nose at Girithon. His hands were folded in front of his body and he emanated disapproval, although it was rather wasted on the messenger who was still out cold.

The messenger was too still, somehow, and even as Parvon frowned and moved towards him, Triwathon spoke up.

‘Should he not be stirring by now? He looks… I do not know, empty…’

Kneeling beside the messenger, Parvon shook his head.

‘He is not breathing, oh, sweet Eru, his neck… I… I have killed… he is dead and…’

‘It was an accident,’ Triwathon said. ‘You would never deliberately harm another elf, you were trying to protect me.’

‘I know, and if I had stopped to think I would have sent for the guard, but I was so afraid for you I did not pause. He is dead, he is dead, and I killed him… had there not been enough loss lately?’

A knock at the door and Parvon went to open it.

‘Master Parvon, you sent for me?’ Thiriston said, easing himself into the room. 

It was a large chamber, but suddenly it felt far smaller with his looming strength added to it. The captain placed his hand over his heart and bowed towards the fallen before taking in the room and the persons in it. A strange light came to his eye as he turned back to the advisor.

‘Something happen here you need help with?’

‘Commander Thiriston.’ Parvon tried to keep the relief from his voice. ‘Do you know the way to the cells?’

‘I do indeed, Master. Someone need an escort?’

‘I do, in fact. I have… seem to have… it was an accident… killed the messenger Girithon.’

‘About time somebody did,’ Thiriston said. ‘Nasty piece of work, for an elf.’

‘I… even so, he is dead and it was my fault. You must lock me in the cells until the matter can be investigated, that is the law.’

‘Captain, it was not intentional,’ Thiriston said, his voice husky and rough. ‘Girithon was… he had his hands around my throat, Parvon came in and pulled him off me. Girithon fell badly against the wall; we thought he was simply unconscious…’

‘Master Parvon has a point, though; anyone suspected of taking a life has to be held in charge. It’ll all be cleared up easily enough, I’m sure.’

‘You cannot!’ Triwathon protested. ‘Thiriston, it was an accident…’

‘I do not want to be locked up,’ Parvon said, ‘nor do I want to leave you…’ He turned to Thiriston. ‘The Commander collapsed after the incident; he should not be left alone…’

‘Canadion’s outside,’ Thiriston said. ‘He’ll keep an eye on the Commander. Could start a panic taking him off to Healer Mae…’

‘Healer Maereth has enough to do,’ Triwathon said. ‘I am grateful. But I am fine, Parvon.’

‘Might be worth letting one of the healers look you over in your rooms, or here, even,’ Thiriston said. ‘Got a nasty bruise or two shaping there, would stand in Parvon’s favour. Well, if we have to, we have to. Come on, Master Parvon.’

Thiriston opened the door for Parvon to precede him from the chamber.

‘Captain Canadion, if you would sit with Commander Triwathon for a few minutes, I would be grateful.’ Parvon said.

‘Of course, Master Parvon… is all well?’

‘Not really, but thank you for asking.’

*

‘Been thinking,’ Thiriston began once they were out of earshot of the guardroom. ‘You’re too important to lock up. Necessary. Burials today, Yule Eve Feast, Night of the Names… you’ll be needed.’

‘I understand that, but it is the law. If I do not abide by it now, how will it look?’

‘Imagine when the tale gets around, though? Oh, those as knew what Girithon was like, they’ll cheer you on, but the rest? And it was an accident.’

‘It was. And despite what I know of him, what I saw him do, still he was a Silvan, he is dead when he should not be…’

‘There are dozens dead because of him already.’

‘Dozens? Has there been an update on fatalities that I did not know of? What…?’

‘From the old days. Not sure what you’re meaning is, though.’

‘He knew about the dragons. And still, he delayed on the road. We should have had word three days ago.’

Thiriston swore.

‘But you must see you’re needed working,’ he insisted. ‘Think of what it’d do to the heart of the place, if you were locked up for kinslaying. Nobody’d know who to turn to, who to trust. Only thing, take you to the Palace Office. Let them decide.’

*

Canadion shivered as he saw Girithon lying dead on the floor. He debated asking what had happened, but decided too many people would be asking that soon enough. Besides, no doubt the Commander would tell him, in time. He took a moment to compose himself, to find the right expression for what appeared to have happened, and closed the door behind him. 

‘I remember Glorfindel,’ he said with an elegant bow towards the Fallen. ‘I met him first after the Battle of the Three Dragons. There were warriors who woke in the night shouting, after it – I’m sure you remember – and Lord Glorfindel knew what they needed. He set up a special camp fire for them at night, where they could come and talk or not talk, just share knowing they weren’t the only one. Thiriston used to go. It helped him a lot. Glorfindel was a hero.’

Triwathon nodded mutely. 

‘A real hero,’ the young captain went on. ‘Not only did he die protecting others, but he died far from home.’

Was there a point to this? Girithon was lying dead on the floor, Parvon was on his way to the cells and Triwathon really would have preferred to be left alone just now, but apparently, Canadion had other plans…

‘It minds me that we have our own Silvan heroes who did the same; long before the War of the Ring or the Battle of the Five Armies, there was the Battle of the Last Alliance where we lost our first king. Thiriston was there then, he saw… he doesn’t talk about it much and, really, for all that I love him, I am glad of it; I do not think I would want to hear… Well. Many who came home were ghosts of themselves, and other ellyn tried to comfort them… it is said that was when the term ‘afflicted’ was first used; it meant only a heroic warrior who had suffered and for whom there was not enough healing to be had. So the elves who tried to care for them, who loved them, were doomed to see them fade from grief and horror…’

Canadion sighed and drew a chair up near Triwathon’s. Not too close, but there, nevertheless, in case he were needed.

‘Then the ellyn turned to each other for solace. They would use a special place, an alcove in one of the communal pools, and looked at each other there, and then went home together. It was not perfect, it was not love… but it was better than the raw, aching pain of losing someone you cared for. Especially if that one was not your fëa-mate. When Girithon came to the Old Palace, he began to isolate these relicts, one by one, preying on them, using them, claiming his ways would drive out the pain… but all he did was hurt them more, and when they would have stopped, backed away from him, he insisted – but it was only what you wanted, you did not even protest… you did not mean your no, you simply meant yes, but you didn’t want it to be your fault… oh, not me,’ he said with a shuddering laugh. ‘His fëa was foul, even then, when you got up close… He even tried to seduce my father, while he was still bonded to my mother, can you believe? By chance, someone who knew Girithon’s reputation, and who knew Adar was newly arrived in the palace and so might not know, stopped things going wrong for Ada…’

‘Canadion? What do you think happened in here, that you say such things?’

’I do not know why or how Girithon is dead, but there are many deaths on his conscience, even if he was not outright a kinslayer.’ The elf sighed. ‘I am sorry about Glorfindel, and I know you were close. I had a close friend, once. He died. I felt awful. Had Girithon found me then, I do not know, it could have been the death of me… he made us blame ourselves, even when nothing had happened, he made everyone feel as if it had, and it was their fault. I think Girithon would take any opportunity to be his usual unpleasant self, and he was no respecter of persons, Commander. If you had to defend yourself, who would blame you?’

‘It was not like that, it… it was an accident. He slipped, and fell against the wall.’ 

‘I can see that, but… how, Commander? I can see the bruises on your throat; I have seen those marks before, the last time on a dead person Girithon had spent time with… Is there anything I need to know to help you?’

Triwathon shook his head. To say anything more would be to blame Parvon, and it wasn’t his fault. All he had been doing was trying to help, it hadn’t been Parvon’s fault.

Canadion sighed softly.

‘Thiriston and I would have loved very much to work here with you,’ he began. ‘But I think I have said too much, asked too many questions. I was trying to help, but perhaps you will not want us here because of it, to be reminded that I know Girithon tried to harm you. And I think that will be sad, but I am just glad you are safe, and Girithon is dead. There are many ellyn who will be grateful for it.’

‘No, that doesn’t matter,’ Triwathon said. ‘I… will not say whether or not your words have any particular meaning for me, but your forthrightness would not prevent me from offering you, and Thiriston, a posting here. Simply, I do not think the New Palace will be allowed to continue. Elves have died, they refused to believe there was danger, they ignored even the simple safety procedures and they died. And had the message got through sooner, they might still live. But what matters, what will be seen to matter, is that I was in charge of the garrison, and I did not save them. I am not sure I will be in a position to give anyone a post, Canadion, when the king learns what has happened here.’

He swallowed, the action hurting his throat, reminding him with a shudder of Girithon’s hands so tight and implacable. If he had just pushed him away, had shouted, had not allowed himself to be vulnerable, none of this would have happened, Parvon would not now be headed towards the cells…

Of the two of them Parvon was much more important to the running of the New Palace…

‘I am grateful that you wish to help, but there is nothing to be done. It is my fault Girithon is dead,’ he said. ‘Irrespective of the fact that it was an accident, I am to blame.’


	15. Enquiries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faerveren has more authority than he is comfortable with...

Faerveren walked more jauntily as he returned to the Palace Office. The goshawk was on its way, he had found an elleth who had agreed to horse the missives through the forest, and he had even found time to bespeak a key to one of the good guest chambers from the housekeeper, and borrow an item of equipment from the healers to make things easier for Master Erestor, whose injuries must be troubling him far more than he would admit. 

He had stopped many times on the way to hear reports , or had been stopped for reassurance and information, and something was growing very clear to him; there was a greater need than ever for a formal top table in the dining hall tonight, to pass out clear information, quash the rumours, and put everyone in the best frame of mind as was possible under the circumstances.

‘The injured have all been tended to, although more casualties are expected with the hour, and the horse of the Lord of Gondolin has been found safe and brought to the stables,’ he began, passing on what he thought was the pressing news first. ‘The hawk is away and you should have already met the elleth who will ride to the Old Palace…’

Belatedly he became aware of a strangely tense atmosphere, Master Parvon seated with Honour-Uncle Thiriston behind him, and Lord Arveldir’s expression serious, was worrying. The door to the inner office was closed, and this suggested exclusion of Master Erestor gave him pause.

‘What has happened now?’ he asked. 

‘There has been an incident. An accident,’ Arveldir said. ‘And it is a matter only you can legislate on.’

‘Me?’ Faerveren said. ‘But Master Parvon is in charge, I am the least of underscribes…’

‘Not in this case,’ Arveldir said. ‘And I am retired from service to the Greenwood, so while I can advise, I cannot decide.’

‘Tell me, then? I will do my best…’

‘Girithon is dead,’ Parvon said, swallowing as if the words hurt him. ‘I… it was my fault. I killed him. Not on purpose, he was… attacking Commander Triwathon, I pulled him off and hit him, I was angry to see such...disrespect. He fell and… and didn’t move. I didn’t know, at first, I thought he was just unconscious and I was more concerned about the commander… but then… and so I gave myself up to Captain Thiriston and told him to take me to the cells…’

‘Didn’t think it was a good idea,’ Thiriston offered in his big, rough voice. ‘Besides, I don’t work here, so he couldn’t make me. Needs sorting out, lad.’

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ Faerveren said. ‘I can see that. Yes, it would cause panic if word got out that Master Parvon had been locked up. But at the same time, it is the law. Well, unless it can be shown that the matter was not deliberate – I do take your word for it, Master Parvon, but you know how it is. If we represent the King’s Law, then we are as subject to it as the next elf, you and Lord Arveldir taught me that… I think someone should look at where this incident took place, and try to understand what happened. If it can be shown to be not deliberate, then I think house arrest would be sufficient, until the King himself can judge the matter. You said, Master Parvon, that Commander Triwathon was present?’

‘It was because he was being attacked by Girithon that I intervened…’

‘Good, perhaps he was able to see what happened.’

‘I doubt it; he was almost unconscious himself.’

‘So it was obviously a very severe assault. Where did this take place? Was anyone else there?’

‘In the room where Glorfindel lies,’ Parvon said. ‘The door was closed. Only Triwathon, Girithon, Lord Glorfindel and I were present.’

‘I see, and, of course, we cannot ask Glorfindel, he… Oh, dear, I am really not the best person to ask,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I file papers and write notes, I do not order my seniors to be locked away…’

‘Doing just fine, penneth,’ Thiriston rumbled.

‘Thank you, Uncle. Did you notice anything?’

‘Yes. Triwathon’s bruised round his neck, was gasping for his breath. Nobody had any weapons drawn. Which you would, if you were Parvon’s height and planning on killing someone of Girithon’s build.’

‘That’s helpful, yes, you wouldn’t go up against Girithon empty handed unless you had to. Well. We were planning on taking him in charge for treason, so, Master Parvon, that you had not drawn your knife suggests to me you did not expect to find him there.’

‘No, I did not. I simply…’ Parvon sighed. ‘I felt something was wrong and simply hurried in. I did not shout, or call for a guard, or pause to think, I simply intervened. Once sure Triwathon was safe, I sent the guard to bring Captain Thiriston – I intended handing Girithon over to him to take to the cells. It was while Triwathon and I were waiting for him that we noticed something was wrong, that Girithon was dead.’

‘What of the Commander?’ Faerveren asked. ‘Has he been taken to a healer?’

‘Left Canadion with him,’ Thiriston said. ‘No point upsetting everyone by trailing him through the corridors. Think about it; Parvon locked up, Triwathon almost killed while he was sitting in vigil, what’s that going to do to people’s confidence?’

‘Yes. He must see a healer, though, and it would be useful for one to examine Girithon’s body, too, to confirm that no weapons were used and that the death was caused by his fall. We should have the commander brought here, I should speak to him, perhaps Uncle – Captain Canadion will escort him… or if I go myself, I can ask, and then…’

‘It would be better if you stayed in the office, Master Faerveren,’ Parvon suggested. ‘I might flee, otherwise, since – as Captain Thiriston has already pointed out – he does not have to do what we tell him and so he would not have any right to hold me here.’

‘Yes. Then, perhaps, Lord Arveldir, I do not like to ask, but would you be willing to seek out Commander Triwathon? I do not want to send one who does not already know what has happened, the fewer persons who know, the better, at present.’

‘I would be pleased to help in this,’ Arveldir said. ‘And I might remind you, also, that I am an independent witness and so will be able to report objectively.’

*

Once he had politely asked Canadion to help Commander Triwathon along to the Palace Office, Arveldir bowed to the remains of Lord Glorfindel and closed the door behind him. Standing just inside the chamber, he looked about him. The Balrog-Slayer’s body showed signs of having been superficially tended, his hair tidied a little, some of the blood cleaned away, but largely he looked much as he had when Arveldir had last seen him. 

Little puddles of water, slowly drying on the floor, suggested the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower had been lightly washed, and there was an indication that someone had, perhaps, skidded on one of the puddles. It aligned with the direction Girithon would have taken in order to fall against the wall.

He had been left to lie as he had fallen, and though usually this would have shocked and dismayed Arveldir, in this instance it was helpful that the body had not been moved.

‘Most helpful, however, would be a witness,’ he said aloud. ‘Even if the report were inadmissible, for whatever reason, just to have confirmation for my own peace of mind would be a boon.’

He folded his hands together in front of his body and rocked on his feet, staring at the darkest corner of the chamber.

‘I am patient,’ he said. ‘I can wait. But there are many pressing matters with which I could be assisting, if I were not delayed here.’

A few minutes passed, and Arveldir began to wonder whether he had misjudged matters. But then there came a soft sigh from the edges of the room that built and echoed and were followed by a coalescing of the darkness until a figure stepped forward, light glittering like diamonds in the aftershock of his movements.

‘Lord Arveldir, simply because you almost died once and so are blessed with the ability to see me when I permit it does not mean I am in any way indebted to you or owe you the courtesy of my presence…’

‘My lord Námo.’ Arveldir bowed. ‘I am most grateful for your attention. I wonder if you perhaps were here when matters unfolded earlier today?’

‘One could say so.’ Lord Namo approached and perched elegantly on the edge of the table where Glorfindel’s body lay. ‘I’d just had it out with our friend here – he’s keen to get home and kiss his lover goodbye – about the delay. I had told him he was my last for the night… which was true; I simply didn’t mention there was another to collect today; he had misunderstood and thought I had meant all the dying was done… so we were arguing semantics when I came through to collect and nearly found myself in charge of the wrong fëa…’

‘My lord?’

‘The newly-deceased there…’ Námo indicated Girithon’s body, ‘was busy squeezing the life from our mutual friend Commander Triwathon. Now, that was not at all how it should have been. I was rather glad when that fellow came in and saved the day. So it was simply a tragic accident. Well, an accident, certainly, I doubt yon will be missed…’ The Doomsman of the Valar tilted his head, observing the remains on the floor. ‘I have an especially deep corner of the Halls for such as he. It will take him a very long time to climb up to the lighter regions. Even by my standards. One could even argue it was self-defence.’

‘But it was Parvon who…’

‘Parvon, whose fëa is tied to Triwathon’s. Had the Commander died, Parvon would not have lasted long; he has waited so long as a living creature for Triwathon’s regard that his beloved’s death would have destroyed all his peace… of course, I expect the poor fellow is swathed in guilt, now, and Triwathon won’t be much better… but that was all it was. An accident. And about time, too. You have no idea how many fëar I have in my care just because of Girithon’s games.’ Námo tilted his head at Arveldir. ‘Is there anything more, or can I please get on? You think you are busy? You should try my duties, child!’

Arveldir smiled and bowed.

‘Please tell Lord Glorfindel that there is word Asfaloth has been found safe and well. And that I will do my best to support Melpomaen in the time to come.’

‘I was being sarcastic!’ Námo said. ‘Well, very well, I will pass that on. And so, goodbye. I hope it is a very long time before we speak again.’

‘In fact, my lord, so do I. My thanks.’

Suddenly the room felt abandoned, utterly vacant. Arveldir sighed, bowed once more to Glorfindel, and left the chamber feeling rather more at ease in his mind.

*

‘An accident,’ Faerveren said, when Arveldir recounted his odd conversation with Lord Námo. ‘I am pleased to have it confirmed by so important a person, even though he is unlikely to present himself to tell the tale to our king… You see, Master Parvon, it was not your fault in any way. Nor was it yours, Commander Triwathon. And…’ He shuddered. ‘I knew the deceased. I cannot be sorry I will not see him again. Of course, we will need to consider what to do with him.’

‘In what way?’ Arveldir asked.

‘The matter must go before the king, and so we will need to say the fellow’s name. Therefore he cannot be laid to rest before the Night of the Names… but I do not want him near decent souls, and his removal to another chamber would be best. First, I think, we need to wait for a healer to look him over and report exactly on the manner of his death. We also need Commander Triwathon to be examined…’

‘I am fine, Master Faerveren…’

‘Indeed. However, you bear the marks of the assault, which must be recorded so that the king is in no doubt that you were in danger. Besides,’ Faerveren went on, ‘we need to present a strong court at supper tonight, you will need to speak, Parvon, you will need to address the company also. The people need it. So to have your health attested to is important.’ He paused to gather himself. ‘It is the finding of the Palace Office, therefore, pending review by His Majesty the Elvenking, that Master Parvon is innocent of any deliberate intent to cause the death of Messenger Girithon, who was himself suspected of treason. This being so, we require Master Parvon to confine himself to the palace complex, except where his duties require him to be present outside the gates. On those occasions, he will have a guard at his side at all times to fulfil the guidelines stated, but there is no cause for the populace to be made aware of his involvement in Girithon’s death.’

Faerveren let out a breath, suddenly finding he was shaking.

‘Of course, the guard could be Commander Triwathon – what more natural than that our Advisor in Chief and our Commander be present to represent the two parts of our settlement – the Palace Office and the Garrison?’

‘What are you thinking, Faerveren?’ Arveldir asked.

‘As many of the families as possible will want to see their loved ones laid to rest before the Night of the Names,’ he replied. ‘There will be many burials, and the families will appreciate an official presence. There is just tomorrow, really, unless the day of the Yule Eve Feast is also to be spent laying our dead to rest.’

‘You have a point, there.’ Arveldir nodded. ‘What of the gemstones for the families?’

‘I…’ Faerveren twisted his shoulders. ‘In fact, since Master Parvon has been shown not to be responsible for Girithon’s death, there is no reason why I should not hand over the running of the office back to him, is there? Master Parvon, I will do as much to help as you require of me, of course, but if you would like to take over again, I would be very glad not to have the responsibility of the entire New Palace in my hands.’

Parvon smiled at the frantic edge towards the end of Faerveren’s speech.

‘Would you like me to find you some nice filing?’ he asked.

‘I would find that very calming, Master, but… I think there is other work yet for me? Oh, you were joking!’

The reinstated Advisor in Chief nodded.

‘Only a little. I would like you to escort Commander Triwathon to the healers, and while you are there, explain about Girithon. If you can bear it, go with the healer and hear what they have to say about him; I think his neck was broken when he fell, but I would prefer to have it confirmed. Then you can return here, and mind the desk for an hour. I promised the Commander I would help him tend Lord Glorfindel; he died for us, it is only fitting that senior personnel take care of him as a mark of respect.’

‘Of course, Master Parvon. May I have a moment before I follow your instructions?’

‘Certainly.’

‘My thanks.’ Faerveren turned towards Arveldir with a bow. ‘Lord Arveldir, I have something for you.’ He handed over the key he had acquired earlier. ‘It is for the best guest corridor, the room at the top on the left. I thought Master Erestor would appreciate a comfortable place to rest.’

‘Thank you, Faerveren.’ Arveldir glanced towards the inner office door, closed to give Erestor some peace to rest. ‘This is very considerate.’

‘Just outside the door is one of those devices the healers use for transporting injured persons. With respect to Master Erestor’s feelings, I am sure he will find walking uncomfortable and…’

‘My ada helped invent those, along with Ada-in-Honour,’ Canadion said with a swift smile. ‘The latest sort is called an elf-barrow by the disrespectful, but it is perfectly good.’

‘I will leave you to discuss the matter, Lord Arveldir, with your husband,’ Faerveren said. ‘Your presence at supper would be very reassuring to our people. Captain Thiriston, you and Captain Canadion are also invited to attend…. Ah. Forgive me, Master Parvon, I should have asked you first…’

‘You are quite right, we need a strong top table tonight. While you’re at the healers’, ask Maereth to attend supper, too. Stress that it will make people feel comfortable, since it will show she is not desperately needed in her rooms.’

‘Yes, Master Parvon. Commander Triwathon? If you would come with me, please, we need to make sure you are properly well after your ordeal.’

‘My ordeal, Faerveren?’

‘I found even talking to our erstwhile messenger a most unpleasant experience. To have him lay hands on one…’ The underscribe shivered. ‘It would be horrific, I am sure.’

*

Parvon took his seat behind the desk as if he had never thought to inhabit it again. He needed time to process everything, he on the point of shaking, of shouting or weeping and he did not know how to deal with any of the things that had happened… dragons, deaths, Triwathon being attacked, Girithon’s perfidy… his death… it was impossible, all of it. And yet it had happened. All of it.

Thiriston and Canadion were still there, waiting, perhaps to help, perhaps to be dismissed. He found a formal Palace Office smile for them and suddenly felt more at ease as he felt his proper mantle settle over him once again.

‘Thank you for your help, Captains,’ he began. ‘There is one more task needing doing – enquiries should be made concerning Girithon’s connections, his family, his friends…’

‘I do not think he has any family,’ Canadion said. ‘At least, none that own him… Thiriston, you are more of an age with him than I am… do you know?’

‘Pretty sure not,’ Thiriston said. ‘Nobody ever admitted to kinship with him, back in the day.’

‘There may be something on record in the Old Palace,’ Parvon said. ‘He was found in a flet in one of the near settlements; can you ask of Narunir where he was found, and if you would then go and enquire who his friend was, I would be grateful. If you find them, ask them to come in and talk to me, do not mention Girithon’s death, that is my responsibility.’

‘Will do that for you and gladly, Master Parvon,’ Thiriston said.

‘My thanks. And please, do attend the top table tonight. If nothing else, Faerveren will feel better with his kin to hand.’

Suddenly, only Parvon and Arveldir were left in the office.

‘I find I am very grateful that you have such wide ranging friendships, Arveldir,’ Parvon began. ‘I… it is strange, but I began to doubt what I knew to have happened…’

‘In fact, it is hardly strange at all,’ Arveldir said. ‘You have had to think about the event, and recount it, in so many different ways. Lord Námo said you would no doubt feel guilt, as will the Commander. But really, it was not your fault. Do not allow such as Girithon to taint your fëa, Parvon. He would rejoice in it, if he knew.’

‘I do not know what I would have done without Captain Thiriston refusing to take me to the cells, without you here to help. And Faerveren is young, but I am so proud of how he coped. Had such a thing happened when I was a junior…’

‘You would have locked me up and thrown away the key,’ Arveldir said with a smile. ‘And rightly so. Well, I will collect the elf-barrow from outside, and my husband, and I will wheel him away to the undoubtedly fine room Faerveren promised me. We will be at the high table tonight, of course.’

‘Thank you.’

The door to the inner office had been closed at Erestor’s suggestion: ‘So that I may have a little quietness while you assist our friends, my dear,’ he had said, but really because he had heard enough, when Thiriston had ushered Parvon in, to learn that what was passing was a very private matter and not really for him to share.

Now, as Arveldir opened the door, he started, pushing himself more upright against the cushions that padded his chair.

‘I was not sleeping! I was but allowing my mind to drift.’

‘Of course you were, dear one. Good news – there is a room for us.’

‘How thoughtful of someone.’

‘Faerveren, in fact. The bad news is that it is one of the good rooms, which means it is a little distance away. However, a way has been found…’

Arveldir left the room, returning presently with the folded elf-barrow, which he proceeded to erect near Erestor’s seat.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ Erestor asked with suspicion.

‘If you think it is the best and most comfortable way to convey you safely to our room, yes, my dear.’

Erestor allowed himself to be helped into the wheeled contrivance and even permitted Parvon to come and fiddle with it so his most badly injured leg was supported, but his hands gripped the armrests tightly as the elf began slowly to propel the chair into the outer office. Arveldir smiled at his spouse.

‘You would prefer I carried you?’

‘Of course, most beloved, but not in public.’

Parvon hid a smile and stepped away.

‘The corridor servant will supply anything you need, including fresh garments,’ he said. ‘And I will see you at supper.’

*

The New Palace was not large in comparison to the Old, but nevertheless it spread some way under and around and into the hills of the forest. The pleasanter guest rooms were towards the outer edge, and by the time they got there, Erestor had realised that, actually, the walk would have been acutely uncomfortable.

‘I suppose this contraption will be useful, too, for taking me along to the evening meal,’ Erestor said as Arveldir came to a halt outside the rooms. 

‘It is a pity, though, that our saddlebags are under a very fine sweet chestnut several miles from the outer villages.’ 

‘I will see you settled and then speak to the servant, explain we have arrived without luggage. Ah, here we are.’

Arveldir unlocked the door and wheeled Erestor inside before lifting him out of the elf-barrow and into his arms, looking around as he made his way to the bedroom. The chambers themselves were very fine, spacious and with lightwells allowing pools of dim daylight to shine down onto the sitting room. The sleeping chamber had a window, and the bathing room off it had both a washing cascade and a small bathing pool. Erestor sighed when he saw it.

‘Alas, I am forbidden both, on Healer Maereth’s instructions. But it is something to look forward to.’ 

‘I think we all need that,’ Arveldir said, laying his husband on the bed with gentle care. ‘I shall see if the servant can find us fresh garments, I think, and then I can at least wash you a little… most of you… and we should be able to wash and dress your hair. We will both enjoy that, of course. Then an hour or two resting – both of us, beloved – and I am sure we will feel the better for it.’


	16. Winterstew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon, Triwathon and Maereth address the gathered elves over supper...

Triwathon stood at Glorfindel’s side and tenderly stroked his hand before laying it gently down by his side. The Hero of Gondolin had been washed, his wounds dressed, and a fine linen shirt and formal Silvan fighting kilt put on his body. His hair, too, had been washed, braided and bound, his eyes closed in a strange sort of sleep. Beneath his head lay a blue towel, folded so that the border with its tracery of embroidered yellow flowers was visible. Outside, the New Palace was bustling with refugees still arriving, injured elves, misplaced elflings… but in here it was just Glorfindel, and Triwathon, and Parvon on respectful watch inside the doorway; Girithon’s remains had been removed to a very small room off the healers’ chambers once Healer Maereth had looked the body over.

Triwathon, too, had submitted to Maereth’s inspection, and while her brows had contracted to see the many purpling bruises around the commander’s throat, she had declared him otherwise well and released him from her halls. From there, he had returned to the Palace Office and Parvon had accompanied him to his rooms where, as he had promised, the advisor had stood guard outside the Commander’s door while he washed away the taint of Girithon’s pollution.

So now Triwathon was clean and in fresh garments, wearing a tunic with a high collar to hide the marks on his neck, but feeling much better for the chance to wash and change.

Even so, he was troubled and once again turned to his friend for support.

‘I am so afraid, Parvon,’ he began. ‘I learned so much from Glorfindel, he made me what I am, and now that he is gone, will I change again? Will I revert to how I was, that shy, uncertain ellon?’

‘The death of anyone who has been important in our lives changes us,’ Parvon said, folding his hands together in front of his body. ‘How not? They have been there, and then they are not; there is a void where once there was laughter, friendship, affection… how much it changes us depends, in part, on how much we allow it, how much we refuse to be affected… but as to reverting to how you were? I doubt it, Triwathon; I think you have come too far, and do not forget, much of what you have achieved you did on your own. Or at least, without Glorfindel’s direct encouragement.’

A wan smile.

‘It felt, in those early days, as if Glorfindel was in everything I did… Ai, Parvon, I do not know how to start, where to begin, what to feel…’

‘That is normal.’ Parvon said it with the certainty of one who knew. Although he was quoting what Glorfindel had himself said, on occasion, still, it was true; he himself had lost kin, he knew loss and grief. ‘We are not supposed to die, and therefore we were never meant to witness the death of our friends and families. One feels what one feels, in one’s own way and in one’s own time.’

Triwathon nodded.

‘And the other thing… had you not arrived when you did… It was frightening, Parvon, him… Girithon… coming in here, saying those things, and I… almost… just like after… oh, I do not know if you knew, my friend who died…’

‘The poacher?’

This drew a wry smile.

‘Yes, indeed, the poacher, although he was so much more… well. After he died, I was… other people died, too, of course, but he… and I thought, if he had not been so flighty, if he had done more in the guard than just follow the set orders, if he had tried harder, perhaps he would have lived… and I wondered if I would fall into the same trap… instead, I fell into another. One who has sailed, he… he offered what I thought was comfort… and more, and that it would help. It did not and half way home he… he abandoned me. Glorfindel – when we got back – Glorfindel was kind. I do not want to go back to the person I was before; too many people rely on me, I would not be fit to protect them, I… Someone said to me once, that I was the sort of ellon to fall in love again and again, just to avoid finding my forever love, because in my heart I did not believe myself worthy of being loved forever. That I would never be good enough, or consider myself good enough.’

He took a deep breath and sat down, turning to face Parvon. 

‘I have often wondered what you thought of me, when we first met. I have wondered what you might, perhaps, have told Glorfindel about me, had he asked…’

Parvon frowned; it was an unexpected comment and he was unsure where it was leading.

‘Glorfindel would not have asked, of course, especially not once he knew I had feelings for you. He was too well-mannered. But, had any enquired of me concerning Triwathon, of the Court Guard, I would have said nothing either of us need be ashamed of. I would have spoken of your courage and loyalty and your developing leadership skills; I would not have mentioned youthful indiscretions and misdemeanours…’

‘I know, that wasn’t quite… I think what I meant was… what did you see in me, when we first met? So that if I change, I know you would spot it, and stop me.’

‘I think it would take more than I to do that,’ Parvon said. ‘Really? You wish to discuss this now? Here? In front of Glorfindel?’

Triwathon nodded.

‘Perhaps I want him to hear what I was like then; I never told him how foolish and silly I was, not really.’

‘Oh, very well…’ Even though Parvon was fairly certain Triwathon would not be flattered. ‘The first time I saw you was when you and the poacher had been hauled into the King’s Office for straying, yet again, onto the Royal Elk Tamers’ preserves. The Elk Tamers were rightly furious, and the poacher was smirking. You were grinning openly and I looked at you and my world changed. My fëa reached out to you and my heart stood in my chest as if it would never beat again. I could not speak, I could not move; all I could do was fill my senses up with you.’ Parvon grimaced. ‘I was furious! Here, then, was my fëa-mate, beautiful of face and form, yes, but… but giggling because he’d been caught in the preserves with a poacher? I was devastated! How could this be? What were the Valar thinking, to tie my fëa to someone who seemed destined for the cells, or at the very least, remedial duties? How was I ever going to live it down?’

‘…what?’ Triwathon managed after a long pause.

‘We were not a proud family, not above ourselves or our company, not afraid of a hard day’s work… but to think of my parents having to acknowledge me, their son, connected with a… a borderline criminal…! The shame of it would have broken their hearts, even if they could have got over the first shame of my being – as they would have said, thought, felt – afflicted… I resolved in that instant I would never acknowledge my feelings, would never seek marriage or love but instead would live a close and celibate life and thus spare my family from the awfulness of having you for an honour-relative.’

The commander shook his head. 

‘This, from you? A person under house arrest?’

The advisor and the commander stared at each other. Parvon gaped, Triwathon ventured a grin, and the advisor blinked and from somewhere a laugh bubbled up. Triwathon joined in, the two of them clearing their fëar, the air, their hearts with humour. Even Glorfindel, it seemed, was smiling gently.

‘Well, you asked.’ Parvon recovered first, gestured towards Triwathon with outstretched fingers. ‘But look at you; so handsome, so beautiful… and for decades no-one suspected me of being attracted to you, they thought I was simply doing my work well and efficiently, that I had no interest in romance. When you came back from fighting dragons, you were already changed. Then, something about you – perhaps the loss you had suffered, the rejection, perhaps the realisation that your friend might not have died had he been more conscientious – I do not know – but something about you reawakened all the yearnings of my fëa and this time, this time my heart and my mind followed too, and I was lost beyond redemption.’

He lowered his hand and brushed back his tawny hair.

‘It was only then that Arveldir noticed my attraction, although perhaps that was because he had lately found love with his Erestor – but whatever the reason, that was the moment. Perhaps my fëa had always seen your potential, perhaps I was simply slow to follow… I know I do not speak of it often – it is too difficult a reminder for us both, I think, and if I ignore my deeper feelings, I find I am able to be quite a good friend to you. I hope I am, at least.’

Suddenly it bore in on Triwathon how at every touch and turn, Parvon had been there, watching over him, helping him, supporting him in ways no garrison commander had any right to expect from an advisor-in-chief and he was more grateful than he could properly express at for Parvon’s steady assistance.

‘Parvon… you have been my best friend for so many years now… ‘

‘And I hope to continue to be so for as long as you need my friendship.’

Triwathon nodded. ‘I will always need your support, I think, as wise as you are, as brave in your own ways even as was Glorfindel.’

‘You honour me, Triwathon.’ He paused and looked down at the Balrog-slayer, lying in state as if he were a Silvan. It struck him he had no idea of the burial customs of Glorfindel’s people, what his wishes might be. ‘We must find out what his friends want for him. I shall ask Erestor, that will be best; Elrohir has his own grief at the moment.’ 

‘Are not we his friends?’ Triwathon said. ‘Can we not honour him in our own way? He died for us, we need to offer him a Silvan burial; he should have a starlight gemstone, be laid to rest in the forest…’

‘He would like that, I am sure,’ Parvon said, interrupting before Triwathon’s voice could grow sharp and fast with emotion. ‘But we should consider his household, should we not? He does have other friends…’

‘He does, of course; I am being selfish, I… but consider the practicalities; how might one carry his remains across the mountains at this time of year? Should we not send for his other friends, have them come here for whatever rituals they would hold? If… if they will not follow our ways…’

‘The timing is difficult, of course. Triwathon, I think you are right – he should have a gemstone. He was always moved by the Night of the Names, and it is a good way to honour him. Let me speak to Erestor, though, and seek his opinion.’

Triwathon nodded.

‘The best, he must have the biggest, clearest, brightest and most perfect diamond in the stores, he…’

‘I’ll bear that in mind when I select the stones for our fallen,’ Parvon said, trying not to flinch; Glorfindel had been many things, but perfect was not one of them and the advisor was sure that so wonderful a gem as Triwathon suggested would not be appropriate. 

‘Thank you, yes, that would be kind. I… oh, I am wrong, am I not? He’d just laugh at a perfect stone…’

‘We can choose together, if you like. Celeguel said she would like to sit with him, she’s just outside. He won’t be alone.’

*

Parvon presented himself outside Arveldir and Erestor’s guest chamber and inclined his head politely as Arveldir opened the door.

‘If I may, could I speak with Master Erestor before supper?’ he asked. ‘It is not a pressing matter, but I am anxious to know what to do, when the time comes…’

‘That sounds rather ominous!’ Arveldir said. ‘Is it something I might help with, perhaps? My husband is injured and tired. Step in, however, and sit a moment.’

‘I know, and I apologise for being a nuisance; it is possible you may be able to advise, Lord Arveldir, but I am not entirely sure. It… it concerns… certain burial arrangements…’

‘You mean Glorfindel?’ Arveldir said bluntly. ‘I see why you feel you need to involve my husband… it is not straight forward, is it?’

‘Is it not?’ Erestor asked from where he lay on the sofa near the fire.

‘We wish to offer Glorfindel full Silvan rites in honour of his sacrifice. But if we do so, in order for us to remember him on the Night of the Names, he must first be laid to rest; there has to be a clear delineation between the burial and the speaking of the name after it. With the observances so near, it is impossible for Glorfindel’s friends across the mountains to get here in time,’ Parvon explained. ‘But really, I wished first to ask whether, in your opinion, any of his friends would object to us taking care of him in our own way; I do not know what it is you do, with your bodies, you see.’

‘Generally, we try not to create any.’ Erestor smiled. ‘Glorfindel would love to be treated as a Silvan, I am sure. Nor do I think any of his friends will mind… he had a lover, did you know? Just lately, the last few years.’

‘I did not know, no.’ Parvon tried not to sigh; here was another thing he would have to either tell Triwathon, or decide to keep from him. ‘I hope he will not be too much missed?’

‘He will be hugely missed by all of us,’ Erestor said. ‘But his friend – I do not think they were in love, I think they were more friends who happened to be lovers occasionally.’

‘Melpomaen – Findel’s bed-friend – is very tender-hearted, so he will mourn, certainly. But he will not quite break his heart over Glorfindel,’ Arveldir said. ‘Not to sound callous – however much we treat him as one, Glorfindel is not a Silvan – so his fëa will not mind if it is not treated entirely as it should. I suggest we find him a place, and lay him there with the rites required for us to speak his name, and then escort his gemstone to Imladris. We will return, in time for the New Year, with it, and with any of his friends who wish to attend, and lay him formally to rest then in accordance with Noldorin tradition. Is that a good plan?’

‘Yes, that would fit all the eventualities,’ Parvon said. ‘As for where – I have an earth-cave which I would be honoured to give up for Glorfindel. Nobody need know it was mine, I am not looking to have my name linked with his – but it will be easier, I think. The tree above is the most elegant in the forest, and golden flowers bloom around it in season. When his friends come in the New Year, it will be beautiful to see.’

‘It is very kind of you, Parvon,’ Arveldir said. ‘Will you circulate the stone here first or send it back unfilled?’

‘Glorfindel’s current lover should be first to speak his memories,’ Parvon said. ‘I am certain Triwathon will cede the right to first memories to him, once he knows Glorfindel left someone waiting.’

‘Yes, that is as it should be. We will stay with you until after the Night of the Names, and then – once Erestor is well enough – we will escort the gemstone to Rivendell.’

*

The evening meal was a strange affair. Having consulted with Parvon once more, Faerveren had approached everyone who was anyone in the palace and invited them to the top table. As expected, Maereth claimed pressure of work, but there had been no new arrivals needing her care for more than an hour and Othwen said firmly that she could cope perfectly well, Maereth needed to get away from the healing rooms for a little while and if there were an emergency, she would send to the dining hall. Elrohir and Rusdir hesitated, but Faerveren had asked with so much respect, acknowledging their loss and suggesting their example would support others who were also grieving, that they accepted the invitation. The Galadhrim were there, too, honoured guests for their part in helping escort the injured to safety and in fighting the dragons. Erestor sat a little awkwardly in his elf-barrow rather than on a chair, Arveldir at his side. Parvon and Triwathon sat almost together at the centre of the table, only a narrow, empty chair between them, representative of the presence of the king but taking up less space.

The hall filled. Towards the back tables, three ellyn in from the villages south and east clustered, bickering, silenced only when Parvon rose to his feet to address the company.

‘Welcome, friends, guests, visitors, on this strange evening. Following the meal Commander Triwathon, Healer Maereth, and I will address you concerning the difficult events we have weathered and answer any questions you may have.’ He spoke with a confidence he didn’t quite feel, in part fuelled by the knowledge that if those in the hall knew of his involvement with Girithon’s death, they would be less likely to believe in his reassurances. ‘But for now, eat, drink, and console yourselves with the fact that we are here, our forest is here, and however hard the days ahead may be, in time, all will be well.’

He nodded to the servers, waiting at the sides of the hall, and the food and drink went round.

‘Winterstew,’ Arveldir said with a sigh, leaning forward over the bowl and inhaling the rich aromas. ‘I have not eaten winterstew in many decades.’

He reached for the platter of bread and broke some off, dipping it into his bowl and proffering it to Erestor in a public display of intimacy that made his husband blush, just a little, as he accepted the morsel.

‘It is delicious,’ Erestor said. ‘It minds me of meals from long ago, when I was a little elfling. The sauce is so rich, and the vegetables add colour and texture.’

‘Winterstew is also a very good way to make a small amount of venison server a large number or persons,’ Arveldir added, smiling. ‘Understandable, as there must be twice the usual number of diners tonight.’

‘I was going to explain it by saying we are saving ourselves for the Yule Eve Feast and therefore the fare is simple,’ Parvon said. ‘But somehow, it is what we need tonight; it is comforting, I think.’

Certainly those gathered ate heartily. Knowing there would be a temptation for everyone to drink more deeply than they ate, Parvon had made sure the wine going around was the lightest in store, but there were no complaints. The mood of the hall, really, was weary more than anything.

Once the meal was over, and the wine had gone around again, Parvon rose to his feet. Along the table, Arveldir surreptitiously tapped his goblet to call the hall to silence.

Parvon lifted his drinking cup.

‘To our honoured dead,’ he said. ‘We will speak our memories to their stones, and we will remember their names at the appropriate times. But while we are still permitted to name them, let me say: I remember Landaer, Rhoscthel, Hithuves…’ 

A murmur spread as the names sank in, as those who had not known now realised what had happened to their missing friends or relations. One or two wept softly.

‘…Girithon,’ Parvon finished, slipping the name of the messenger in at the end of the list. He paused. ‘There are those who are missing, still, who I will not count with the dead. One other lost his life in the attack, an elf whose home was far, far from here, who travelled over the mountains with his friends and who died after slaying the last of the dragons. We will remember the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, Firstborn and Seneschal of Rivendell, Balrog-Slayer and now Dragon-Slayer, Glorfindel in accordance with Silvan traditions, for he died protecting Silvans. He will be missed.’

A ripple of consternation passed through the hall. Parvon waited for the buzz of conversation to subside.

‘The Palace Office understands that you will wish to lay your fallen to rest as soon as possible, and to that end memory stones will be placed beside them this evening, so that you may begin to share your recollections. If you have any requirements, needs, and questions about laying your honoured dead to rest, we will be at your service in the morning. The death of any elf is a terrible thing, and to lose so many in such circumstances is a tragedy. We feel for your losses.’ 

He paused to let them take that in, and addressed them again. 

‘The king has been informed of our situation by hawk and by messenger. And now Commander Triwathon now will speak to you.’

Triwathon rose, lifted his drinking cup in salute.

‘To our honoured dead,’ he said. ‘May Lord Námo nurture their fëar until it is time for them to walk again in the bliss of Valinor. But I must talk now of us, of we who survived. We have done well, given the start of this day, to end it in peace. There is much still to be done, of course, but there is room in the New Palace for all those who have lost their homes. The healers will need support in the days ahead, and cannot be expected to bear it all alone. Those of my garrison with field training will help. I have had teams of hunters out searching for our missing friends, and they will go out tomorrow, also. Our visiting Captains Canadion and Thiriston have offered to help look after the elflings in the school room – not to teach them, but those who are apart from their families feel safe with them. It is to hope we can reunite our sundered families swiftly. But now the palace is secure, the dragons are all vanquished, the fires no longer burn. In the days ahead we will need to face many difficult decisions, but for the moment all we can do is regroup and take care of each other. I wish to extend my thanks to those visiting elves, from the Old Palace, as well as from across the mountains, who have worked so tirelessly to help us. To those of you who have abandoned your regular tasks to assist. To our Healers, Maereth and Othwen, and their assistants, who have not ceased in their efforts. Healer Mae – will you tell us, please, how it is with your charges?’

Healer Maereth gave the impression of steeling herself as she began to speak. Her voice wavered at first, until she saw the nods and relieved smiles from the hall as she spoke of how everyone in her care would heal, how few injuries the elflings had suffered, how brave the little ones had been… thus encouraged, she relaxed, and went on to thank those who had helped her.

‘Although we seem to be missing a borrowed elf-transporter, and somebody promised to return it…’ she finished.

Faerveren looked acutely embarrassed, but Arveldir spoke up.

‘Forgive us, Healer, but I would not countenance its return – my husband refuses to let me carry him in public.’


	17. A Farewell Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon and Triwathon set the Starlight Gemstones for the fallen, and Glorfindel says goodbye to Melpomaen...

Not wanting the meal to drag on for too long – there were still many things to attend to that evening – Parvon took the first opportunity to rise from the table, Triwathon following suit immediately in a clear signal that the meal was over.

There was an instant rush and clamour of elves with questions spilling out of their eyes, however, and so the Commander and the Advisor in Chief exchanged glances and set up at a side table with Healer Maereth between them, where they spent an hour reassuring, consoling, advising and sometimes simply listening to the worries of the elves in their care.

Just when they thought everyone had been answered and were ready to rise again, the three bickering ellyn came forward, talking over each other and jostling for place.

‘What happened to Girithon?’

‘Why is he dead?’

‘He was a messenger, not a fighter, and he was taken from my village by armed guards!’

_‘Wait, what was he doing in your village? He said he had to go to the palace, that’s why he left me…’_

_‘Oh, so, that’s where he was off to! He told me I was the only one… this trip…’_

_‘But he didn’t tell me he’d been with you…’ ___

__‘Master Girithon had an accident,’ Healer Maereth said. ‘He slipped and landed badly, his neck breaking in the fall. It was swift and he did not suffer. I am sorry to bring you the news, since you appear all to care for him.’ She rose with grace from the table. ‘And now I beg to be excused. For you have moved on to matters for private discussion, I deem, and I have left my halls in Healer Osweth’s care; she has been on duty since the first warning. Goodnight Commander Triwathon, Master Parvon. Be well.’_ _

__Parvon waited with every appearance of polite attention for the three to stop squabbling over whom Girithon had liked the best, and whose fault it was that he’d been brought to the palace anyway; it was a part of his Palace Office training to keep his expression neutral in the face of extreme provocation, but really, he was mortified. That at least three persons seemed to care about the messenger compounded the guilt he had been trying not to feel ever since he had realised the ellon was dead. But had he not acted, Triwathon might now be lying lifeless on a table somewhere; Arveldir had passed on Lord Námo’s exact words and there was no doubting the Doomsman of the Valar…_ _

__The thought steadied him and he interrupted the squabbling ellyn with new steel in his voice._ _

__‘In fact, if you take a moment to consider, Girithon’s late arrival meant we had no news of the dragons until they had already descended upon us and started killing people,’ he said. ‘Those of you – all and any of you – who harboured him or persuaded him to delay his road are probably culpable. Had Girithon arrived when he should, he would have been on his way back to the Old Palace and nowhere near dangerous, slippery stone floors in those parts of the New Palace where he had no right to be. I am sorry that you are saddened by his death, but this is really quite unseemly behaviour and best kept for private discussion. Decide amongst yourselves what to do with his remains; he is resting apart from the other since his death was not dragon-induced. Goodnight, mellyn-nin. Commander Triwathon and I have business to attend to.’_ _

__Since the ellyn did not seem as if they wished to move, Parvon was forced to rise and walk away, with Triwathon following his lead._ _

__‘I am glad to be gone from the company of those three,’ Triwathon said as they moved deeper and deeper into the heart of the palace, ‘but I would like to know if we are simply fleeing, or if there is a destination in mind?’_ _

__Parvon halted._ _

__‘My apologies, Triwathon! I am heading for the strongroom; I wish to set the gemstones as quickly as possible so the families have time to sit with them. And, of course, there is Glorfindel’s stone to select.’_ _

__He reached a corridor with an awning over and unlocked several doors before he and Triwathon reached the inner room he had been seeking. One wall of shelves was empty, with small stands set in place, waiting for the burden of memory-filled jewels. On the other wall, several locked chests waited for keys, and Parvon opened the first of these now; in it was a selection of pearls, smooth and softly gleaming in the lamplight._ _

__‘It must be difficult to know how to define our Silvan dead,’ Triwathon said. ‘None who lost their lives were warriors. And yet they died fighting.’_ _

__‘The definition we use has come to us from the king himself,’ Parvon said, lifting down a second, smaller chest. ‘It has nothing to do with how one died, but about how one expected to die… otherwise, the presence of a diamond, or a pearl, could be misread to imply courage, or lack of it. I do not doubt that those who could, fought against the dragons. But it was not their duty, they were not trained for such an eventuality.’_ _

__Parvon sifted through the pearls, selecting one here and another there as if he was looking for something in particular, although to Triwathon’s eyes there was no difference. He gathered some sixteen pearls and set them on a strip of velvet, eyeing them with approval before putting them in a small pouch and continuing with his explanation while he closed the casket and replaced it on the shelf._ _

__‘A guard, or a hunter, or a warrior, they expect to meet danger and are trained to face it,’ he went on. ‘A clear gem shows they knew their way was clear before them, its hard, sharp edges reminding us of the sharpness of edged weapons… but a warrior who perhaps drinks too deep and falls from his flet – it has happened, rarely – he would not have been expecting to die, and so a pearl is more fitting. A pearl says: they had no time to prepare, they had no warning of danger. Innocents, if you will.’_ _

__‘I see. So… they all will have pearls?’_ _

__‘Except for Glorfindel, of course.’ Parvon lifted the lid on the small chest. ‘These are the rare gemstones, the ones that defy cataloguing. I thought this would suit him.’_ _

__He lifted out a large, almost oval chunk of a gem. It was almost translucent, but its heart was tinted with shades of yellow and amber, and at its centre was a minute imperfection that altered how the light moved through and around it._ _

__‘Yellow diamond,’ Parvon said. ‘Considered far more valuable in monetary terms than white. Even flawed, this stone would sell for more than a dozen perfect stones. But we do not keep them for their value, of course, just for their worth. It was felt such a stone could not be allowed to be sent to market, to be pawed over and mauled by dwarves and men, but our own Silvans, of course, would not want a stone that was not clear…’_ _

__‘Why is it not shaped and faced like the other stones?’_ _

__‘Ah. It was thought the flaw would be more noticeable were the stone to be faceted. Instead, it was cushion-cut, rounded and smoothed so that it feels pleasant in the hand. You could sit with this stone, and talk to it, and feel it was a friend, perhaps. Now, I promised the families these gems would be set tonight. Will you come with me? I can bring Faerveren if you have other matters to attend,’ he went on quickly, for Triwathon had seemed to hesitate. ‘But it would be seen as a mark of especial respect for both the Palace Office and the Garrison Guard to place the gemstones.’_ _

__They went first to the small chamber where Girithon lay (‘to get it done and to move on swiftly’) Parvon said. Nevertheless, as he placed the pearl on its stand at the side of Girithon’s head, he bowed._ _

__‘We of the New Palace thank you for your service on behalf of the Elvenking,’ he said. ‘And on a personal note, I am sorry to have been incidental to your untimely death. Console your fëa with the knowledge that, had you lived, Thranduil would no doubt have levied the heaviest penalties upon you for dereliction of duty, and causing the death of so many elves. We will remember you.’_ _

__From there, it was but a short walk to the Quiet Room hear Maereth’s healing chambers. Of a courtesy, Parvon went to speak with her._ _

__‘We are placing the gemstones,’ he said. ‘Is all well with your charges?’_ _

__‘Mostly they are settled for the night. One or two have pain, and others are afraid of sleep. But generally, all is well.’_ _

__*_ _

__The Quiet Room was occupied, not only by the deceased, but by one of the bereaved as well; an ellon, seated over by a table on which a small chest had been placed. A name card was propped against it, and the ellon looked up when he heard the door close._ _

__‘Triwathon,’ he said, his voice gently dull. ‘Parvon.’_ _

__‘Elrohir. We remember Rhoscthel. She loved her family, she adored her children, and she was so proud of her honour-brother and his spouse,’ Parvon said, approaching. ‘How is Rusdir?’_ _

__‘He is sad, of course. But he is glad they found her. Well, some of her… a hand, someone recognised a ring she wore… it’s awful, isn’t it? I’ve done my share of fighting, I know my way around a battlefield, but when there’s just so little of a person left you could put them in your saddle bags…’_ _

__‘I know,’ Triwathon said. ‘But you have something to lay to rest, a place for the children to go and know her essence is with the forest, even as her fëa is with Lord Námo…’_ _

__‘They’ll come back with us, of course. They like Imladris, and at the moment they’re scared if they can’t see the sky. Rus is with them, I said I’d sit with her, for a bit.’_ _

__‘I have her gemstone here,’ Parvon said. ‘A pearl, to show she was not expecting to be taken.’ He placed it in a stand beside the casket. ‘On behalf of his majesty the Elvenking, we thank you for your service, your loyalty, your love, Rhoscthel. We will remember you.’_ _

__Together he and Triwathon bowed, and moved on around the room, repeating the ritual, only the names changing. Several of the tables held caskets like Rhocthel’s, some were empty but for a name plate; known to have died, no remains recovered yet._ _

__In due course they found themselves almost back at Rhoscthel’s table, and Elrohir looked up once more._ _

__‘It’s awful about Glorfindel, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I’m glad Arveldir’s coming back to Imladris to share the news, I don’t want to be the one to break it to Melpomaen…’_ _

__‘Melpomaen?’ Triwathon asked. ‘He is one of the young healers, is he not? I remember him, but I do not…’_ _

__‘You didn’t know? I’m sorry, I thought you would… they were together… they kept it private, but I thought Fin’d write you about it. It did them good, they were both lonely…’_ _

__‘I see. I hope… I hope he will not be too much distressed. I doubt Glorfindel would want that.’_ _

__‘No… but he’d claim to want some tears, I think. He liked to pretend he was vain.’_ _

__Triwathon found a smile and nodded._ _

__‘Please pass on our sympathy to your husband. We remember Rhoscthel,’ he said. ‘And pardon us – we must deliver Glorfindel’s stone now.’_ _

__*_ _

__‘So that’s what he meant, in the forest,’ Triwathon said when they reached Glorfindel’s room. ‘When he asked Arveldir to “tell Mel”… did you know?’_ _

__‘Arveldir mentioned it to me before supper. I was not sure whether or not you already knew. I would have told you myself, had I realised.’_ _

__‘No, I… I’m glad for him. And… and it’s fitting. He – Melpomaen – I liked him, you know, he was one of those easy, friendly sorts… he will be first to speak his memories. I won’t have to. That’s better for everyone, really, if… if not for him, they’d make me first, wouldn’t they? Because of our past? And I wouldn’t want to do that, to be seen to be mourning him especially. I will, of course, but it’s as you said. They need us strong. And… it’s going to be difficult.’_ _

__‘You can, at least, place the stone.’ Parvon tumbled the gem into Triwathon’s palm. ‘That much is our right, as leaders of the community. And you can thank him on our behalf.’_ _

__Triwathon held the stone in his closed fist for a moment before placing it._ _

__‘Glorfindel, we are grateful for your sacrifice to save our people. Our king would wish us to say we are indebted to you. We will remember you.’_ _

__As he stepped back, he nodded, his eyes filling._ _

__‘Yes, it is right, it is so perfectly right, and warm. I…’ Shaking his head, he sighed. ‘Pardon me. I am trying to be done with weeping for him; after all, he will be with his Ecthelion by now, will he not?’_ _

__*_ _

__In fact, Lord Námo had not quite got as far as the Halls of Waiting yet. This was due, in part, to his necessary delay while he waited for the fëa of Girithon to stop making suggestive offers in the mistake belief that he could, in some way, bargain for his life back. Finally, Námo got bored._ _

__‘Elves may be patient,’ he said. ‘Elves may be able to wait, but I, child, am an impatient Vala with miles to go before I sleep, and a stop to make along the way. Besides which, nothing you offer is of any interest to me whatsoever, except as it vindicates my decision to lock you up and throw away the key until somebody has something redeeming to say about you… now, be still and be silent!’_ _

__With a glare and a snap of his fingers, Námo leaned towards Girithon’s body and dragged out an indistinct and unprepossessing shape which he held at arm’s length and with a curl of his lip._ _

__‘You were born with a perfectly lovely fëa, too, it was bright and fresh and sparkling… just look what you’ve done to it! It will take forever to get some of those stains out. Ah, well…’ He found a pouch and dropped the tarnished fëa inside, securing the neck and tying it to his belt. ‘Now, I suppose I can get on… oh, just look at you,’ he said, caught by the sight of Glorfindel’s remains. ‘So pretty in that kilt! Good thing you didn’t see what I saw, you would not have liked it, child… Now, off we go…’_ _

__About to slide through the walls of the chamber and between the miles to come out at Imladris, Lord Námo sighed and turned back._ _

__‘What is it now…? Arveldir,’ he murmured. ‘I suppose I should have known…’_ _

__But it was a comparatively brief delay, and once Námo had recounted his impression of events (and leaving out the dire and disgusting impressions he had had from Girithon’s mind), the elf had been satisfied enough to bow and leave._ _

__So, finally, Lord Námo emerged somewhere in the environs of the Last Homely House and it was time for Glorfindel to wake up and say his farewells…_ _

__He had become very fond of Glorfindel during his first stay in the Halls of Waiting, and was delighted to see that some of the changes to his fëa, during this last life, had not been all bad. In fact, there had been some very good alterations... privately, Námo always loved these moments. Even after just a few hours in his care, the fëar of the dead started the process of losing the restrictions caused by inhabiting a hröa, much in the way a butterfly will fill out its wings once it emerged from its chrysalis. Such was the case now, as he gently withdrew Glorfindel from his little nest and set him down safely before him._ _

__‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Rivendell. Out you come, Glorfindel.’_ _

__*_ _

_‘Here we are,’ a voice said. ‘Rivendell. Out you come, Glorfindel.’_

__Fin became aware that the sparkles around him in the darkness were not so bright, the darkness not so dark. He - his fëa – was next to Lord Námo near a rushing river, lit by moonlight. Snow lay all around and he should have been cold, but…_ _

__Oh, that was it! He was dead, that was why._ _

__‘You said you wanted to say goodbye to someone,’ Námo reminded him._ _

__‘Mel. Melpomaen. He’s very sweet. Pretty little thing, too, all wide-eyes and wants to see the world, but he’s been a bit scared, really. Not sure this will encourage him.’_ _

__‘No, indeed! Well, come along. Where will he be, do you think?’_ _

__‘His room, my room… now, that’d be something, if he was keeping the bed warm for me. Actually, no, that’d be upsetting, I think.’_ _

__‘Well? Lead on?’_ _

__Glorfindel thought about Mel, where he might be, and found himself in the young healer’s room. There was a big bolster laid at his back in the bed, as if to keep him company, and Glorfindel sighed. He would have wept, if he could, to see his erstwhile lover curled up into the smallest space possible, huddling into himself in sleep._ _

__‘He has missed you,’ Námo said. ‘He would deny he loves you, if he could, but he does. Not the full, abiding, deep love of fëa-mates, but a very pretty sort of affection anyway.’_ _

__He waved his hand over the sleeping ellon and he uncurled a little, rolling onto his back._ _

__‘There. That should make it easier for you to say a proper goodbye. And, Glorfindel – don’t forget, you have no substance here. If he doesn’t respond, don’t take it personally, dear child.’_ _

__Glorfindel nodded, already lost in Mel. He looked at the dreaming face of his former lover, the beautiful line of brow, the sleeping smile of his mouth. Eyes silvered by the nictitating membrane that protected his irises while he slept, Melpomaen had an ethereal, elegant grace that twisted Glorfindel’s heart._ _

__‘Sweet dreams, sweet Mel,’ he said as he kissed Melpomaen’s sleeping cheek; there was nothing, no sense of contact, but Glorfindel remembered how soft Mel’s skin was, and that was almost as good._ _

__The young healer stirred, muttered something._ _

__‘You were so kind,’ Fin went on. ‘Do something for me; have a lovely life.’_ _

__Námo cleared his throat._ _

__‘There, very touching! Come on, now, I need a word with Celeborn. Silly fellow’s disconnected his fëa from his reason…’_ _

__‘Is that what it was?’ Already he and Námo had left Melpomaen’s room, were materialising in a different part of the house. ‘We thought he’d lost his marbles.’_ _

__‘I suppose he has, in a way. It’s easier than having to think about his family. I mean, Elrond hasn’t exactly been a shining example, has he? Letting his daughter go off with a mortal, not exactly fair to Celebrian, that business with Gil-Galad, and then all those young ellyn… can’t blame the old fellow really… still… and then Galadriel left and took the heart of Lórien with her, he just couldn’t cope with it all… come on, back in the pocket, you don’t need to see this.’_ _

__Glorfindel found himself surrounded by lovely sparkles again. Transfixed by them, his heart warmed by his last sight of Melpomaen, he settled down once again in the darkness and allowed his fëa to sleep…_ _


	18. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon has a visitor...

Parvon heard the noise of knocking on his door even though his washing cascade was running at full strength. 

For a moment he debated ignoring it – the water was hot and stinging and he needed it – but, given the events of the day, it was probably important, and if he wasn’t available, then whoever it was would seek out Faerveren instead – and although the underscribe had proved himself remarkably capable and resilient, the poor penneth had been looking exhausted. It wouldn’t be fair.

He turned the lever to stop the flow of heated water and wrapped himself in a towel, taking another to rub at his hair as he called out he was on his way and padded through – if the matter wasn’t urgent, the person knocking was more likely to apologise and retreat if he was obviously drying off…

He had so hoped to be done for the night.

But then he realised with a start that the knock was familiar, known, and he was at the door and unlatching it almost before he knew what he was doing.

‘Triwathon?’

‘I am sorry, Parvon, you said you would always stand my friend and I need a friend very much tonight…’

‘Come in, of course.’ 

Wishing he had paused to grab a dressing robe after all, Parvon secured the door and gestured to the sofa. To be seen in such a state of undress, even though they were good friends and had known each other for so very long, he still felt uncomfortable… 

‘Forgive me, you were bathing…’ Triwathon’s eyes flickered over Parvon’s lithe body and he shook his head, looking away is if his glance was an intrusion. ‘It is not important.’

‘It must be important, Triwathon, you would not arrive uninvited else.’ Parvon assessed his guest and passed him a goblet of wine. ‘Sit with this while I dress; I will be but a moment.’

Retreating to his bedroom, he pulled on sleeping shorts and a dressing robe – the garments covered him as well as his formal robes did, but were much softer; really, he wanted to feel he was off-duty – wondering what had brought Triwathon to his door.

The commander was staring into the embers of the fire, his wine untouched, his thoughts adrift. Parvon poured himself a beaker of wine and took a seat in the chair placed at right angles to the sofa Triwathon occupied.

‘How can I help, my friend?’ he asked.

‘I cannot settle,’ Triwathon whispered. ‘I keep thinking about Girithon, the things he said, his hands on my throat, and I cannot shake the images… or the fear that some of what he said could be right… after all, when my friend the poacher died, I sought companionship and…’

‘When your friend the poacher died, you needed solace, perhaps just friendship,’ Parvon interrupted. ‘Somehow I doubt that was what Girithon offered.’  
Triwathon nodded, the edges of his mouth trying to smile as he lifted the wine to sip at. ‘I think you are right.’

They sat in silence, Parvon giving Triwathon time to gather his thoughts. But when Triwathon’s goblet was empty and he was staring at the dregs still without having spoken again, Parvon ventured to begin a different topic.

‘I think our elves responded well to the reports tonight. After the burials and the Night of the Names, we can begin to regroup, to rebuild, to…’

‘Rebuild? Regroup?’ Triwathon’s tone was bitter. ‘I could not even keep safe a handful of villages, not with all our alarm systems and the full strength of the garrison; we will not be allowed to rebuild! The Elvenking will abandon the New Palace and take up his seat again in the old and all we have tried to make here will fall into ruin. As it should, for all we have built has been ruinous…’

‘For myself, I thought we had done well,’ Parvon said, cutting across his despair. ‘Elves do not like change, and that so many of them would embrace a new centre of governance so swiftly was good. That they were willing to settle out from the palace was a sign of optimism. And yes, I know that optimism seems to have been misplaced, but…’

‘How many dead, Parvon? How many pearls did you set in the Quiet Room?’

‘Not as many as it may have been.’

‘How many?’

‘Even one is too many.’ Parvon sighed. ‘I took out sixteen pearls and placed them all, including that of the messenger. There are several persons still missing, and I am starting to lose hope… But there are fewer dragons in the world to plague us. How are you feeling now?’

‘Feeling…?’ Triwathon drained his goblet and gestured with it. ‘I am… heartbroken, for all our losses, for what I feel as a personal loss… I am beyond tired, and I am on the verge of tears even when I do not think about Glorfindel and I feel so very, very lost and alone and added to that, Girithon…’

Parvon refilled their drinking cups.

‘We do not have to talk about difficult matters unless you want to,’ he said. ‘We can just take time.’

‘I want to sleep, but when I try to find reverie, I hear Girithon’s voice, feel the air leaving me, something touches my neck and I realise it is only my hair, but for a moment… it feels as if my very room mocks me…’

Parvon swallowed, remembering the sight of Triwathon helpless as the messenger had held him, mauled him. To think of his friend reliving those moments… yet how could he help, other than sit up all night with him?

‘You know he cannot hurt you now,’ Parvon began. ‘And yet the knowing is not enough, I understand that. My brother used to say, being alone makes anything worse. I have been fortunate, although I have suffered loss I have not had to endure… but that does not mean I cannot guess at how upsetting it was for you. Stay here tonight.’

‘What? Parvon, you are dear to me as a friend, but you know I…’

‘No, I mean nothing improper. Only that if you are anxious, it is a way for you not to be alone. Take my bed, I will sleep on the sofa here, it is quite comfortable; I have fallen asleep here myself some nights…’

‘I… could I take the sofa?’

‘You are almost two hand’s breadth taller than I; you would be more comfortable in the bed, I think.’

‘But I would feel I was putting you to too much trouble. Besides which, you are under house arrest, I would be between you and the door, if any were to enquire about what watch was placed on you, or if you were to attempt to flee,’ Triwathon said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘I could not take your bed. But thank you. The sofa will suffice.’

‘It will mean you are well placed for an early breakfast meeting, too. If we thought today was hard, I fear tomorrow will be almost as bad.’ Parvon got to his feet. ‘I will find you a pillow and some blankets. If you would like to use the washing cascade, there are towels and a spare dressing robe.’

‘No, but… in fact, I would like that. Thank you, you are being very kind.’

By the time Triwathon left the washing cascade and returned to the sitting room, Parvon had made up a bed on the sofa for him. He tried not to smile at the sight of the commander in a dressing robe intended for someone shorter and narrower across the body.

‘I am grateful, Parvon,’ Triwathon said. ‘You must be exhausted yourself.’

‘It has been a long day, indeed,’ Parvon said with a sigh. ‘But we are at the end of it now. May I make a suggestion? Put your hair in a single braid doubled to your head and secured. That way the strands will not slide around the front of your throat while you sleep.’

‘That’s a good idea… I am not sure quite how you mean, doubled?’

‘Shall I help?’

Triwathon nodded and sat down with his back to Parvon who gathered his damp hair deftly, folded the tips up to his hairline and clipped it into place before separating it out into three thick strands to plait together. He tried not to see the bruises on Triwathon’s neck which were already fading from purple to an unpleasant shade of green.

‘There is less length this way, more rigidity to the braid - it is more of a queue, really – and it will not catch you in the night. And now I will secure it…’

…his hands in Triwathon’s hair, something he’d never experienced before; there was an intimacy to it, perhaps a trust, and Parvon was glad his expression could not be read, for he feared he was wearing an inappropriate, and rather silly smile. But it was so rewarding, to feel the heavy strands of Triwathon’s damp, lustrous tresses coming together neatly and tidily so they would not disturb his rest…

Parvon fasten off the thick braid, schooled his expression, and stilled his hands.

‘That feels… contained, thank you, Parvon. I cannot remember when last I had help with my hair.’

Could he not? Surely Glorfindel must have assisted, on occasion? Parvon resumed his seat, acknowledging the thanks.

‘If there is anything more you need, just knock on my door and enter,’ he said. ‘Shake me awake, if you must; I do not have dangerous, warrior reflexes. You have been my guest here often enough to know where everything is if you want a drink or such.’

‘I’m very grateful, Parvon. It’s good to have a friend such as you.’

‘Well, goodnight, then. Leave the lantern lit or not, as you wish.’

*

Parvon closed the bedroom door and hung up his dressing robe before sliding into bed with a grateful sigh for the simple pleasure of being horizontal. Just the other side of the door, a few yards away, Triwathon would be settling, too, finding the most comfortable way to fold himself onto the sofa, perhaps trying to tell himself he wouldn’t dream…

This was a new stage, perhaps, in their friendship; although Parvon often visited Triwathon after the evening meal for a nightcap and to deconstruct the day, and Triwathon frequently visited Parvon in turn, never before so late, never had Triwathon come in such need.

Never had Parvon had his hands on Triwathon’s head, in his hair…

Parvon sighed and rolled over onto his back. Now was not the time to let his emotions take hold; he had managed to work alongside Triwathon for almost two decades without allowing his attachment; no, his love – to get in the way of their working relationship; he could not afford to start now, tonight, not with Triwathon fragile and vulnerable after the double hit of Glorfindel’s death and the messenger’s assault on him… it would be too easy to slip, tired as they both were, to make a mistake from which their friendship might never recover…

One thing, though; if Parvon’s fëa were not attached to Triwathon, he would not have sensed something was wrong; he might have come too late.

It wasn’t entirely a comforting thought, but Parvon was so tired that it was the last one he acknowledged before his eyelids fluttered up, his nictitating membranes engaged, and he slid into reverie.

His dreams were uneasy, tainted with the fear he’d be accused of murder, and featured Thranduil banishing him to serve as intermediary with the Dwarves, where he met both a re-embodied and vengeful Girithon and a dragon that spoke in Triwathon’s voice and then started knocking a huge amber gem against the floor to let out a trapped elf apparently inside, tapping and knocking and…

Knocking.

Parvon sat up with a gasp, his eyes focussing.

Triwathon, of course.

‘Triwathon, are you well?’

He left the warmth of his bed and pulled open the door. The commander his friend was shivering despite the fact that beneath the blankets draped around his body he was still wearing his shirt and leggings, his face stiff with control as he shook his head.

‘Dreams,’ he said.

‘Of course dreams. Will you come in, or should I come out?’

Triwathon stood back from the door, clutching the blankets, retreating to the sofa. Parvon nodded and reached for his dressing robe.

‘I am grateful you knocked,’ he said, taking a seat by the hearth and prodding the almost-dead embers into a hopeful glow before adding firewood. ‘My own dreams were… unpleasant.’

Triwathon gave him a sidelong look.

‘It’s not a competition, I know,’ he said. ‘But… mine were awful.’

‘If it were a competition, I would concede to you the victory undoubtedly,’ Parvon admitted. ‘My point is more that we share in the common experience of disturbed rest. I… what will happen, if Thranduil should declare Girithon’s death not misadventure, but… but murder? For while I had no wish to kill him, I was terribly angry and in my rage I was aware only of getting him off you…’

‘Do not think that, Parvon, not for a moment… it cannot happen, not with the word of Lord Námo, and our own Arveldir to explain… but if it were, then I would insist on standing alongside you as equally culpable, I would share your fate. For if I had been more determined, more vocal in my rejection…’

‘Lord Námo said it was not your fault.’

‘Also he said it was not yours.’

Parvon sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to feel when in the night they were. ‘It is four hours before dawn. Small wonder we awoke; it is the same time that the warning bells sounded. There is still much ahead of us. We should try to sleep a little more.’

‘Yes. But I do not know how I can. Girithon…’

‘…is dead. He cannot hurt you, not even in your dreams.’

‘I know this, of course. But my dream self…’

‘Consider.’ Parvon left his chair and took up a station at the end of the sofa. ‘Consider who is also dead. Glorfindel. If your dreams give Girithon power, they will also give your friend strength. He would never allow you to be harmed.’

‘But…’

‘No; hear me. If your dream self acknowledges the one, it must also recognise the other. Remember it.’ Parvon smiled as Triwathon began to settle on the sofa, and lifted his friend’s feet across his lap. ‘Although in my dreams he did not rescue me, I assure you.’

‘I am sorry. Then who…?’

‘You, I think. Or a dragon, it was rather bewildering. Now, let your eyes open fully to reverie, and try to rest a bit. I will be here, should the dreams return.

*

Parvon woke with a start to find himself alone and more spread out on the sofa than he remembered having been. The blankets had been draped over him, and an attempt made to slide the pillow under his head. 

He blinked clear his eyes and pushed himself up, smiling as he spotted a beaker placed on the slate warming stone close to the fire. He reached for it and sipped at the warm liquid, grateful for the thought behind the drink as much as for the tea itself.

A soft tapping on the door, and Triwathon came in. He looked taller, brighter, and was dressed in a fresh uniform. His hair, Parvon noted, was still in the queue he’d bound it into the night before.

‘You found it, then? Good morning,’ Triwathon said. ‘I woke an hour ago, begged a drink for you from the hall servant. I also took the liberty of telling him you would want breakfast for five for the morning meeting before I brought your tea and went back to my own rooms. I changed and got the night report from Narunir, I thought we could look it over before the others get here.’

‘You’ve been busy. And you’re looking better.’

Triwathon nodded.

‘Your words helped. I slept easily and woke feeling much refreshed. You’ll want to change, of course; there is time, I asked everyone to meet here in half an hour.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Faerveren, of course, and Arveldir said he wanted to know what was happening. Erestor by courtesy, if he feels well enough. I do not think Arveldir wants to be away from his side at present.’

Parvon nodded.

‘Thank you, that’s saved me a great deal of trouble. Will you wait here while I dress?’

‘Of course; I have the report to look over in any case.’

*

‘Good morning, mellyn-nin,’ Parvon said, inviting everyone in. ‘Shall we eat first? Otherwise the discussion might dull our appetites.’

‘A good idea,’ Arveldir said, supporting Erestor into the room. ‘I must confess to an appetite today.’

‘Take seats, please; no elf-barrow today?’

‘I thought I would be able to walk,’ Erestor said with grave dignity. ‘Too many persons stop and ask how bad is the pain, when I am in the wheeled contraption.’

‘I hope you are feeling better, however. Faerveren, thank you for coming. No, sit down, we can all serve ourselves.’

It was a good thought not to discuss anything except the food, for once the meal was done, the breakfast meeting was solemn, given the weight of recent events and the information from the night report.

‘No further survivors arrived overnight,’ Triwathon announced. ‘In fact, the bodies of two Silvans were found in the remains of a fire-damaged talan in Oak Village last night. I have yet to see for myself, but Narunir says it looks as if one individual died of injuries and the other held him and allowed herself to fade.’ He paused, swallowing against the sadness implicit here, allowing the others a moment to take it in. ‘There was a married couple from Oak on the list of the missing, so we feel sure we have identified them. That leaves three elves unaccounted for at the present time. Otherwise, all is secure around the perimeter.’

‘Thank you, Commander,’ Parvon said. ‘Faerveren, we should make enquiries; who they were, if they have any family…’

‘Already done, Master Parvon. Captain Narunir slid a note under my door with the information for when I woke. They seem to have had friends, but no relations. They are being brought in, a double table is being prepared for them, so they may stay together still, and Healer Mae has promised to make them presentable, if she can, before the families of the other dead arrive.’

‘That’s very efficient of you, Faerveren, I am grateful. This morning, I expect the families will wish to begin laying their dead to rest. It is not essential for the Palace Office to send representatives – indeed, there are so many it would be difficult – but we cannot attend some, and not all.’

‘I… this is outside my experience, Master Parvon,’ Faerveren admitted. ‘But there must be precedents?’ 

‘Indeed there have been,’ Parvon said. ‘I think a respectful presence in the Quiet Room to bid each elf farewell and thank them for their service on behalf of his majesty, to bow them on their way, will suffice. Where there are no remains, or very few, those elves will be commemorated together,with a cairn where the path breaks to go to each of the three villages; branches will be laid to represent those whose bodies are lost. We – that is, a representative of the Palace Office and of the Garrison – we will attend to honour them. Later, when all the rest are settled, we will see Glorfindel laid to rest.’

He sighed, and Arveldir nodded.

‘I understand your distress,’ he said. ‘Some of these elves were your friends, and to feel it necessary to act as the king’s representative, and so show no favouritism, it is hard.’

‘But necessary,’ Parvon said. ‘I will remember them on the Night of the Names, that will suffice. Very well. We should look at who will be where, I suppose, Faerveren. I hear everywhere that you conducted yourself with admirable composure in spite of all the chaos here. I would suggest you might like to be away from the Palace Office, but if I did so, then you would perforce take the duty in the Quiet Room…’

‘I could do that, Master Parvon; I knew everyone who was lost, I know their relations at least a little. But equally, they will expect you there, perhaps. I really do not mind the office…’

‘Mostly you will have people coming to ask permission to take their fallen from the Quiet Rooms.’

‘Oh. I… is there a procedure I could learn? That is, I will know how to say it, if I only know what to say…’

‘I will be here, Faerveren,’ Arveldir said. ‘Erestor will sit in the inner office again and I will bear him company. It is quite straightforward, though. If they have a place already, note its type and location so that a proper sign can be installed at a later time. If they do not, there is a list... is there a list of available trees?’

‘In fact, there is not. We did not anticipate this many dead. Everyone who settled here, however, assured me they had a suitable earth cave, just in case.’

‘What…’ Triwathon swallowed, scowling as if annoyed at the catch in his voice as he broke off. ‘What of Glorfindel?’

‘There is a place set aside for him already, donated by one who has expressed a wish not to be named,’ Parvon said. ‘It is to the north of the New Palace by about half a mile. I think he would like it.’

‘Who would do such a thing?’ Triwathon asked. ‘It is generous, but…’

‘Just a person who recognises the greatness of Glorfindel’s sacrifice,’ Parvon said, and was grateful when Erestor spoke up.

‘I wish to attend his rites,’ he said. ‘Fin was my oldest friend, after all. And those for Rhoscthel, I would show my support for Rusdir and Elrohir.’

‘You must consider your injuries, my dear,’ Arveldir murmured.

‘I do not wish to demonstrate my apparent stubborn streak, my love, but if I must…’

‘The earth cave where Glorfindel will rest is close to a good and level trail.’ Parvon said swiftly. ‘Rhoscthel, I assume, will be laid to rest at the memorial cairn. It will be an hour’s walk into the forest, but with care, and the invalid conveyance, it should be possible.’

‘If I may suggest, Master Parvon?’ Arveldir began in mild tones. ‘While there are still three elves unaccounted for, there is cause to delay the memorial cairn – in case sign of them is found, or, better, in case they return – if the cairn is built today, as much as it can be, then tomorrow you could hold their memorial. I know it will be Yule, and the morning of the Night of the Names, but it gives a little more time to find the missing.’

‘Thank you, that is an excellent idea. Very well. Faerveren, you take care of the office, I will be present in the Quiet Room. Triwathon, if it is possible, I would like one of the guard with me, to show the garrison’s respect. And can you have someone stationed outside the small room where the messenger lies? His …friends may come for him and I want it noted if they do, how they conduct themselves.’

‘Of course, Master Parvon. I need to go out this morning, to see for myself how things are in the forest. Narunir will be on duty until I return. Is there anything more?’

‘Could I ask?’ Erestor shifted in his seat. ‘There is a sweet chestnut, about an hour south, and east of south, of the three villages, where we left our saddlebags. If someone could be spared… Glorfindel’s things are there, of course. He took Asfaloth’s harness off, it may sound silly, but…’

‘Not at all,’ Triwathon said. ‘I know how Glorfindel used to work on that harness, how he claimed it was for the horse… but really…’

‘Yes, indeed. I am grateful.’

‘Thank you, everyone,’ Parvon said, drawing back from the table a little. ‘We will reconvene in the Palace Office just before the day meal is called. And after that, I suppose we will need to consider arrangements for this evening’s Yule Eve Feast… but I think that is everything for now.’


	19. 'We Will Remember...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the last of the burials takes place...

The elves of the New Palace limped and struggled through the morning. Burials were something that should be alien to Elves, after all, and so to see a once-laughing, once-loving friend or relation lying still and cold with closed eyes shutting themselves apart was particularly distressing.

But there inside the doorway to the Quiet Room, Master Parvon and one of the Garrison guard stood sentinel, honouring the dead, showing the significance of the losses were felt by the entire settlement, and somehow, that helped.

What helped more was that Parvon was prepared to take a moment to bow to the dead, to speak in soft tones and acknowledge the worth of the elf in the shroud, to offer his aid, his personal time to the families, and they remembered that, he, too, had lost kin, a brother in the War of the Ring, he knew something of what they felt.

‘It is difficult, I know,’ the chief advisor said, more than once, to more than one party. ‘But the worst passes. And tomorrow is the Night of the Names. You know your dear one will hear your voices, even though you may not hear theirs.’

By late morning there was only one complete body remaining – one of the missing elves was a cousin, and so the family were waiting until the last moment in the hopes the lost elleth would be found somewhere and could say her own farewells to the ellon they had already lost – and what were being referred to as the casket burials; those dead elves, such as Rhoscthel, whose remains were fragmented and largely incomplete.

Reconvening in the shortly before the day meal was called, the various officers and officers-by-courtesy of the New Palace and its garrison wore the strain of the past several hours in their eyes.

‘I have been out as far as the place where our friends from Imladris stowed their gear,’ Triwathon said. ‘Three of your horses had made their way back there, too; they proved very useful for bringing in the saddlebags. All seemed well, and are in the care of our stable hands.’

‘That’s good news,’ Erestor said. ‘Amongst them did you notice a very pretty little bay mare, one white sock and a star; my Elwiniel?’

‘There was a bay mare, I think.’ Triwathon shrugged. ‘I am sorry, I did not think to pay more attention; we had made another discovery on the way which was distressing, so to find the horses and your luggage was a welcome distraction… so, to that news… we found an area that had been trampled and flattened and… and there were signs of… of at least two, possibly three…’

‘Signs?’ Parvon asked, and the commander nodded, swallowing.

‘Three… three shoes with… contents, so… at least two people… there was not much else… we have told Healer Mae to prepare…’ he gulped again, shook his head, and went on. ‘It looked to be one of the areas where the dragonets took their prey. It was some distance from the villages. From there we continued on, found the horses, as I say… I told three of my most distressed to bring the animals here while the rest of us went to the villages.’

Faerveren found the strong spirits and poured some for the Commander in silence. Triwathon sipped, nodded thanks.

‘The villages… I fear we have to give up Oak and Beech, Elm has a little less damage, but… you would think the trees beyond saving, but who knows? They may sprout again, in time. However, you would not want to take up residence near the burning. I know people will want to go, to see for themselves. My recommendation is that many of the talain and their associated trees are unsafe; I would want to send working parties out first, to make sure all is safe.’

‘Thank you, Commander.’ Parvon nodded. ‘We will need to try to find out to whom the footwear belonged; it may be that all our elves are accounted for, at last, sad though it be. Arveldir, if you wish, there is time for you to go to the stables and see which horses have been brought. We will sit with Erestor while you do.’

‘And I cannot go because…?’ Erestor asked.

‘Your pardon, Master Erestor,’ Parvon said. ‘Because it is a long way, and the ground of the stables is uneven and sometimes horses leave their traces on the cobblestones which would not do the wheels on the conveyance much good… I mean no disrespect, I assure you.’

Erestor stared and shook his head before finding himself smiling.

‘I will hold you excused from wishing to offend me,’ he said. ‘And on consideration, Arveldir can walk faster than I am comfortable being wheeled, so, therefore, yes, I will stay here and wait.’

Arveldir returned with good news. 

‘Indeed, your Elwiniel is safe and well and stabled next to Asfaloth, to calm her. The other horses are mounts of our Galadhrim companions.’

Erestor tried to muffle his sigh of relief.

‘I am grateful,’ he said. ‘But I wish I might see her for myself.’

‘Ah, but my dear one, she would only worry to see you so strapped and injured. You would not wish that, I am sure.’

*

Early in the afternoon, confirmation came that the remains Triwathon’s company had found belonged to three different elves. That being so, Parvon retrieved three suitable pearls from the hoard of gemstones and went to give them, along with the sad tidings to the families, including that of the last Silvan yet unburied. It was not a task he had ever expected to have to do – explain that so grisly a find was proof of yet another death for the family – but he did it with as much dignity and courtesy as he could find.

‘I am sorry to be the bearer of such news at any time,’ he said, bowing to the son of the dead elf. ‘But when you already have grief and loss, it must compound your difficulties.’

‘At least… at least we know. We may honour our dead in time for the Night of the Names. What…? how do we proceed, Master Parvon?’

‘Your kin in the Quiet Room, when you are ready, you may bear him forth to whatever place you have ready for him. Sadly, there being so many burials today, where our honoured dead have family present to lay them to rest, the Palace Office can do no more than be present when the fallen is carried out. Currently, Master Arveldir is on duty there. It is true, he is not officially a member of staff, but he considers his ties to us still as strong as if he were living amongst us.’

‘Lord Arveldir’s presence will be most welcome, Master Parvon. But… but our cousin?’

‘A place of honour is preparing for her, along with the others who are so unfortunately incomplete,’ Parvon said. ‘A cairn is building near the byway to the three villages. Tomorrow, in the morning, we will place them, and the Palace representatives will be there to acknowledge those who lie there together.’

*

And suddenly, there was only Glorfindel left.

Triwathon and Parvon met Erestor and Arveldir outside the room where the Balrog-slayer lay. Arveldir lifted a set of saddlebags with an odd expression on his face.

‘These are his,’ he said. ‘Brought to me with our own luggage. I thought it would be appropriate to lay everything out beside him, in case there is something we think should go with him.’

Parvon nodded. It was not a Silvan thing, to lay the dead to rest with anything other than garments and a shroud, but Glorfindel had not been Silvan, of course. Nor was Erestor, and for him, sending something to rest with Glorfindel might be important part of the rituals for him.

Closing the door after them, Parvon watched as Arveldir laid out the contents of the saddlebags on a small table at the side of Glorfindel’s bier; a change of clothes, a small bottle of thick liquid.

‘Mane wash for Asfaloth,’ Arveldir said with a smile. ‘Glorfindel used it on his own hair. He claims – claimed – if it’s good enough for his horse, it’s good enough for him.’

Erestor smiled, and shook his head. Triwathon scowled, trying to keep his emotions locked up.

Next out was a pouch, the ties tight at the opening.

‘I know what that is,’ Erestor said. ‘Treats for Asfaloth. Dried cherries, I expect.’

‘And strawberries.’ Arveldir ghosted a smile. ‘We can give these to Asfaloth later.’

‘He should come to the burial,’ Erestor said. ‘I am sorry if it seems odd,’ he added with a glance at Parvon. ‘But it seems fitting to me.’

‘Then it shall be done,’ Parvon said. ‘If you feel you can sit comfortably, perhaps Asfaloth would bear you to the earth-cave, and then nobody would think the presence of a horse unusual.’

‘He cared very much for his steed, that is plain,’ Triwathon said. 

Arveldir continued his explorations, but there was only one item left to remove; an old piece of fabric, so worn and tired it was impossible to say whether it had once been white, or grey, or blue. At the edges, a trace of stitching suggested something had been embroidered there. Triwathon reached for it with a muffled exclamation.

‘I apologise,’ he said, nevertheless keeping hold of the towel. ‘But it was something between us – you probably all know – I made him blue towels with yellow flowers one year and just kept on doing it at intervals.’

Everyone nodded, or looked away from the raw emotion on Triwathon’s face; the gifting of towels had never been secret, however private it may have been intended to be, so that even Parvon had known of it.

‘Fin never went anywhere without one of those towels,’ Erestor said with a sad smile. ‘And there was almost a kinslaying when a hapless housekeeper thought the original ones rags and tried to throw them out… poor elleth, she never quite recovered from the shock of having an irate Balrog-slayer turn on her…’

Small, soft smiles. Erestor continued on.

‘It was that incident that led me to seek a way to find what had happened to you, Arveldir, and you also, Triwathon, and so you arrived at Imladris and I was most joyfully reunited with my love… Ai, we waited too long…’

‘But we had our reasons,’ Arveldir said, lightly touching Erestor’s arm. ‘And all is well for us.’ He looked at where Triwathon still held the old towel as if it were a living creature he needed to nurture. ‘You should keep that, mellon-nin, to remember.’

‘I… I ought not. If it was precious to him, it ought to lie with him, surely?’

‘I see a newer version under his head. Your work?’ Arveldir asked. ‘Then let that go with him, your last gift to your old friend.’

‘That is a good idea,’ Parvon said. ‘Why should you not have a keepsake?’

‘But he… his Melpomaen. He should have it, surely? If it was precious to Glorfindel?’

‘Keep the towel, Triwathon,’ Parvon said. ‘You made it for him, after all. It seems fitting it should come back to you.’

‘We will take the mane wash back for Melpomaen,’ Erestor said. ‘Since Glorfindel started using it, Mel has altered the ingredients to enhance elven hair as well as horse mane. It will be better so, for if you think, the towel will only make him think of how close you and Glorfindel had been.’

Triwathon nodded. ‘I should have thought, perhaps… I… it is not my wish to do anything to make his grief worse. It will be bad enough without my insensitivity.’

‘Do not worry about Mel,’ Erestor said. ‘He has a good friend in Rivendel, Lindir, who will support him. And Arveldir and I will do all we can to help, just as you have a good friend here to support you through the sadness.’

Triwathon nodded, glanced over at Parvon.

‘I have been aware for many years that I am fortunate to have such a friend as Parvon,’ he said. ‘And you are both my friends, and with Parvon, perhaps more aware of how things have been between Glorfindel and me. But I would hope people in general will believe me when I say we were no longer particularly close.’ He paused to grimace, turning the faded towel in his hands, caressing it. ‘If nothing more, it would help me get on with things better.’

Parvon suddenly felt the urge to grin but stifled it.

‘You’d better not let them see you with that, then,’ he said.

‘Master Parvon!’ Arveldir said in shocked tones, but Triwathon was laughing softly and shaking his head, the tension broken.

‘Ai, Parvon! Yes, you truly are a good friend! You are right, I am sentimental and emotional and I am not nearly as stern a soldier as I need to be at times like this! Yes, then, I will keep the towel, but I will put it away.’ He gave a self-conscious shrug and stowed the faded fabric inside his formal uniform tunic. ‘Lord Arveldir, don’t mind my friend. He has a keen sense of the ridiculous – especially when I am being so – and one thing we all know of Glorfindel, he dearly loved to laugh. He would not mind our levity, he will know we do not make light of his death.’

‘Well, then.’ Arveldir repacked the saddlebags, saying nothing when Erestor pocketed the pouch of dried cherries. ‘I will have these sent to our room, and then perhaps I will speak with Healer Maereth about whether or not Erestor is fit to ride.’

‘Will you so?’ Erestor asked mildly.

‘Indeed I will, for you will listen to the healer where you will not pay any attention to me…!’

*  
In the finish, Maereth allowed herself to be persuaded that Erestor could ride as long as he was on a thick sheepskin pad which was placed carefully across Elwiniel’s back and Erestor placed equally carefully on top by Arveldir’s competent hands; the reunion between horse and rider had been calmly affectionate, and more than a few treats from the pouch had found their way to the bay mare before Erestor had been gently lifted onto the sheepskin pad.

The two waited outside the gates while around them gathered those elves who wanted to be part of the ceremony – it seemed like most of the populace, in truth, although Arveldir did wonder whether it was due, in part, to the strict lockdown Parvon and Triwathon had been enforcing; no elves were permitted outside the gates except for burials and memorials, unless they were warriors on duty, and for those Silvans who had been living in talain until so very recently, any excuse to get out under the trees must be welcome.

Triwathon provided an honour-guard from the garrison to carry Glorfindel out through the gates. Once there, he was lain with dignity onto a wheeled bier that Asfaloth had consented to pull. The horse had been dressed in his fine belled headstall for the occasion, and Faerveren waited at his head to lead the way to the earth cave beneath the designated tree.

Parvon came to Triwathon’s side and both bowed to the bier before taking their places. Those elves who had flanked the doors now followed the burial party at a respectful distance. Parvon and Triwathon followed the bier, Arveldir and Erestor following, Arveldir keeping close watch at his side. Behind, Elrohir followed – Rusdir had stayed with his nephews – the Galadhrim after him mingling with the rest of those who had been known to the Balrog-slayer in life; Canadion and Thiriston, Celeguel and Amathel. 

It was a strangely silent procession, just the soft footfalls, the squeak of the wheels on the bier, the light jangle of Asfaloth’s bells.

About a mile into the forest to the north they went, on the broad trail and then the lesser tracks until finally they reached the place.

At his side, Parvon heard Triwathon gasp as he saw the intended resting place; on a low mound, a tall and elegant beech tree held its bare branches neatly to the sky. It looked formal, somehow, stately, but lovely in its lithe lines. Where the roots met the ground, they arched up, leaving open a space large enough to lay an elf to rest in peaceful seclusion.

Faerveren led Asfaloth around the mound, bringing the horse to a halt with the bier in perfect position near the earth-cave. Now Parvon stepped forward and bowed once more.

‘Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, Balrog-slayer, Seneschal of Imladris, hero, dragon-slayer, friend,’ he began in clear tones. ‘On behalf of Thanduil our Elvenking, I thank you for your service. We are grateful for your sacrifice, for the many lives you saved by your courage and valour. We lay you to rest amongst us, as a Silvan, because you died for Silvans, amongst Silvans, far from home. When the time comes, we will remember you.’

He paused, and Triwathon came forward to bow in turn.

‘Glorfindel of Gondolin, Laurefindil, brother-in-arms, friend of those in need of protection, the warriors of the New Palace honour your courage. We will remember you, when the time comes.’

Now the two acknowledged leaders of the New Palace turned to the gathered elves and waited while they repeated:

‘We will remember you.’

At Triwathon’s nod, the honour-guard who had carried Glorfindel too his bier now came forward to gently lift his remains from the bier and carry him into the earth-cave. Once they had placed him and left to rejoin the company, Parvon spoke.

‘And so we lay our friend to rest. Last time he died, he was on a mountainside, and they made him a cairn from stone. But he died for us here, in our forest of Eryn Lasgalen, and so we place him under one of our trees. May his rest be sweet and as his essence mingles with his host, may something of him grow to be part of the forest forever.’

He waited for a moment before turning to acknowledge the Galadhrim and the elves of Imladris amongst the crowd.

‘Our Silvan rites of rest are done. If there are any amongst us who wish to add their own words, according to their traditions, it would honour us.’

Elrohir sighed and came forward.

‘My brother Elladan and I are considered the leaders of the elves of Imladris where Glorfindel made his home,’ he said in a voice that threatened at any moment to shatter. ‘And I think I speak for us all when I say Fin would be so proud that you love him as one of your own, I… goodbye, Glorfindel. You taught me to fight, but more importantly, you taught me when not to. We will miss you but we will remember you.’


	20. The Memory of the Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon confronts Parvon about the tree...

Triwathon’s gasp on seeing the tree beneath which Glorfindel was to lie had, he hoped, gone unnoticed by the rest of the company in general and his friends in particular. But as soon as he had seen it, taken in its graceful form, he had experienced a sudden flash of memory, the image of Parvon, wrapped in a towel and drying his hair; the same lithe line, somehow, in torso and uplifted arm as could be seen in the trunk of the tree and the lift of its branches.

The image was a distraction, perhaps a useful one, for it enabled him to get through the formal speeches for his friend the Balrog-slayer without being overcome by emotion.

It was hard, though, to leave him there, his friend who had liked honey beer, who had helped him so much with his career, building his confidence, knowing when to step away and let him take the promotion that had seen him take charge of the New Palace Garrison; he owed him so much.

And he wasn’t able even to say his friend’s name now, lest it disturb his peace.

Tomorrow, though. The Night of the Names, then he could talk about him, name him. If he could find anyone prepared to put up with him talking about his most recent loss.

There was someone, of course, who would know, understand, be willing to share the observances with him.

Parvon.

Yet Parvon had done so much already, was it fair to ask even more? He would give it, willingly, Triwathon knew; that was the thing with knowing someone was in love with you, though, you knew they would do anything you asked and not expect any return, but it was selfish and unkind to take advantage of them.

But so very, very easy to turn to them in crisis…

He tried not to; he hoped he managed not to stray across the line from friendship into needy expectation… but he was going to have to talk to someone…

That was tomorrow, however; tonight was the Yule Eve Feast and he would be expected to be there, with Parvon, flanking the king’s place and trying to lead the populace in an evening of celebration.

But really, what did any of them have to celebrate?

A small, sharp sound in his vicinity caused him to bring his senses back to his surroundings. Slightly behind and off to one side, sheltered by the undergrowth from general observation, Arveldir had halted the horse on which Erestor sat and was talking to his husband softly; it was from Erestor that the sound had come, a repressed expression of pain, Triwathon thought, for the Noldo’s eyes were rough with it, his expression tight and his face an unbecoming grey. At once he went across.

‘How may I help?’ he asked, and swallowed as he saw a stain of bright, pale red spreading across the sheepskin pad beneath Erestor’s knee.

‘I am fine.’ Erestor bit down on the words, shaking his head. ‘It is nothing, do not pay any attention to me.’

‘Triwathon,’ Arvledir said quietly, ‘if you could get one of the healers to come out…’

‘I am fine!’ Erestor repeated, almost snapping at his husband.

‘Of course you are, Master Erestor,’ Triwathon said. ‘I have said the same of myself, as they were trying to pull a spear from my side, I seem to recall… but your husband is anxious, and so, for his peace of mind, I will stay here with you while he does as he thinks fit – thus I will not get the blame.’

This made Erestor attempt a smile, and Arveldir took his husband’s hand for a brief moment before inserting himself into the forest.

‘I am sorry,’ Erestor said after a little time had passed. ‘I am being ungracious when you, and Arveldir, are simply trying to help. But I do not want help, I want to suffer, I do not believe anyone has the right to feel well today, not with Gl… your pardon, not with our friend lying there dead… I should not have ridden, I know, I should have permitted myself to be wheeled like cargo, or stayed in the palace, but I wanted to say farewell properly.’

Elrohir parted the undergrowth and slid through.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, Elrohir, we’re fine here,’ Erestor said.

‘But I saw Arveldir running, so there must be something wrong, he’s too aware of his dignity to be seen pelting through the forest for nothing…’ Elrohir paused and paled as he saw the mess of pink staining on the sheepskin pad. ‘You’re bleeding. Or seeping, at least, your wounds have opened with the strain of the ride… oh, Erestor! Through the bandages and your clothes, too! You must be in so much pain…!’

‘It is nothing. Others have had worse.’

‘Yes, but that’s not the point!’ Elrohir shook his head. ‘Let me see if I can help…’

‘How, exactly?’ Erestor asked. ‘Arveldir has gone to fetch a healer and, I fear, an elf-barrow so I doubt there is anything I can do except wait…’

‘I can bear you company and let Commander Triwathon get on with his work, at least,’ Elrohir said. ‘But I’d been reading some of Adar’s old scrolls, you know, at home, hoping to find a way to help Daerada. And Mel showed me a thing or two about pain, so I can make you more comfortable, perhaps.’

‘Really, Elrohir? You, who formerly resisted every attempt your father made to investigate whether or not you had any of his gift for healing, now you announce you have the talent?’ Erestor lifted his eyes and glanced at Triwathon, who had shown no sign of wishing to take Elrohir up on his offer. ‘Besides, I do not think the Commander is particularly busy with his duties at present.’

‘Well, to be frank I didn’t want people to see me just as a mirror of my father,’ Elrohir said. ‘And there was all that fighting I had to do, it gets in the way of healing sometimes, they say. So… I deferred, in case I wasn’t any good when it mattered. Look, I won’t do anything that will harm you, honestly, Erestor, all I need to do is just put my hand on your arm and sort of chant a little bit. And I don’t think you need the chanting really, it’s mostly to impress non-elves…’

‘Oh, very well, then!’ Erestor said with a scowl that was due more to his extreme discomfort than from any impatience with Elrohir. ‘I suppose it won’t do any real harm.’

So, looking so nervous and shy that it distracted Erestor from his pain even to the point of him wanting to laugh, Elrohir carefully placed his hands on Erestor’s arm. Frowning in concentration, his mouth moved silently and he repositioned his fingers lightly once or twice.

‘There, that should do it,’ he said with a self-effacing shrug of the shoulders. ‘I hope, anyway. Of course, if it works too well you’ll be telling the healer you don’t need them…’

‘I wouldn’t go quite so far,’ Erestor said. ‘But, yes, the discomfort seems less. In fact, I see no reason to wait when we could be moving, with due care, towards the New Palace; it would save Arveldir and the healer a walk, at least.’

‘Then I’ll go ahead and see if I can find him on the way,’ Elrohir said. ‘That’s if you don’t mind acting as escort, Commander Triwathon? I am not quite sure the horse knows the way for herself.’

‘Are you truly in less discomfort?’ Triwathon asked Erestor once Elrohir had left. ‘For if not, we can wait here…’

‘In fact, to my surprise, yes, he has helped. A pity, almost; to have such talents and come to them late… Better than not coming to them at all, I suppose.’

‘Presumably there is not much need for healers in Imladris these days?’ Triwathon asked, gently guiding the horse back to the trail. ‘And you have… Melpomaen, is that right? My friend the seneschal, his special friend, I think I heard he is a healer?’

‘He is, yes, and very talented. We have a number of human settlements around us; they are increasing rapidly, in fact, and often we are politely approached for help. Melpomaen has made several studies of human aliments and frailties, and they like him for his attempts to understand their ways.’

‘He sounds to be a very talented elf,’ Triwathon said with a hint of wistfulness in his voice. ‘Perfect, one might say.’

‘One might, but he would deny it most fiercely. And whom amongst us is perfect? Even our beloved old friend, he had his faults.’

‘I suppose so…’

Not quite believing it himself, Triwathon let the matter go, trying to put aside the unwelcome, uneasy feeling that he wasn’t quite as happy as he ought to be, that his dear Balrog-slayer had found someone to ease the loneliness in his final decades. He was glad there seemed no need to continue a conversation of any kind; Erestor was still in some discomfort, although trying not to show it.

They had almost reached the New Palace when Elrohir and Arveldir met them.

‘Thank you, Commander, for escorting my husband,’ he said. ‘You, also, Elrohir, I am grateful. But Erestor and I will manage from here.’

It wasn’t so much thanks as a dismissal with dire overtones, so Triwathon smiled and bowed and moved away.

‘I hope you will feel better shortly, Master Erestor,’ he said, politely formal. ‘If you will excuse me, I must seek out Master Parvon in any case; now this sad event is over, we have a Yule Eve Feast to plan.’

He bowed and headed towards the entrance gates, to find Parvon waiting for him nearby.

‘I heard my name mentioned,’ he said. ‘Will you come to the Palace Office to discuss the Yule Eve arrangements, or would you prefer a more private place?’

‘My office, perhaps?’ the commander suggested, leading the way smartly towards the garrison quarters. ‘We will not disturb Master Faerveren then.’

‘Master Faerveren, who will be heavily involved with the Yule Eve festivities himself? That same Master Faerveren? You do not intend to include him in our discussion?’ Parvon asked. 

‘He may be busy filing, or something,’ Triwathon said, holding open the door to his office for Parvon to pass inside. ‘I am sure you can disseminate any decisions we come to.’

‘Well, I can, of course…’ Parvon took the seat offered him, waited for Triwathon to close the door and settle in his chair. ‘Or you could come to the point; what is it you really want to talk about? Obviously, you have more on your mind than your supper…’

‘In fact, yes… the tree…’

‘Ah. Commander, I have told you, the one who offered it does not wish for recognition; do not ask me who…’

‘I won’t,’ Triwathon said swiftly. ‘Because I don’t need to now. When I saw it, I knew.’

Parvon fell into an uncomfortable silence. He wanted to respond with a swift, acid remark, the sort of thing Arveldir could summon up without a blink, but he found himself at a loss.

‘What I want to know,’ the commander went on, ‘is why the secrecy? Why didn’t you just tell me?’

A heavy sigh as Parvon gathered his thoughts.

‘Because I was doing it for Glorfindel, not for you. Well, no, I was doing it for you, really, so you could see he had somewhere special to rest. But I didn’t want you think I was doing it for you, or so you’d be grateful, or think better of me, or… or… you see why?’

‘Thank you. But I am grateful, it’s a beautiful tree in a lovely setting. Parvon – I don’t think you could do anything to make me think better of you – I already do.’ Triwathon reached across the desk and laid his hand over Parvon’s. ‘You are my true, honest, reliable friend and I’ve lived with the awareness of your feelings for long enough to know you won’t try to impose them on me by anything you do.’

‘Hmm.’ Parvon smiled, dipping his head and retrieving his hand as casually as he could, emotion catching him. ‘Now it’s I who am grateful. Tonight, then. You’ll be at the top table, of course?’

‘Of course. I suppose you want me to make a speech?’

‘Yes. If you talk about how safe we are now, and about courage, I’ll talk about moving forward with hope and new beginnings.’

‘Yes, that sounds as if it will work. How are we for supplies? Do you need me to send any of my hunters out to supplement the stores?’

‘No, I think we will manage. It’s a time of year when they all tend to come in from the villages, anyway – we were well-stocked, ahead of the dragons… perhaps we’ll have a light day or two in the coming weeks, but a lot will depend on the word from the Old Palace…’

‘True. With luck, the bird will be there now. Or shortly, at least.’

‘Of course, it was sent off before I killed…’ He faltered. ‘Before I…’

‘Before the accidental death of the messenger,’ Triwathon said. 

‘What if Thranduil doesn’t see it like that when he finds out? What if he thinks we held back that piece of news? It will make me look even more guilty, and…’

‘Accidental,’ Triwathon repeated. ‘You’re not worried, surely? Not with Arveldir reporting the witness of none other than the Lord Námo himself?’

‘I am, a little. Of course I am, it is a terrible thing to have done. Even though I would do it again if I had to. But…’

‘Put it aside,’ Triwathon said. ‘I know that is easier to say than to do. I remember the first time I killed someone, I… had not wanted to. But it was my duty. And at least I had the training to prepare me for the emotional shock. If… if it troubles your heart, you could talk to Healer Maereth. Or to Arveldir; he has been forced to kill when he had not wished to, he will understand.’

‘I do not want understanding,’ Parvon said. ‘I want to be free of the way it keeps coming back to me, the memory of the moment. When I least expect it, when I am doing nothing that ought to remind me. I can be talking to someone and there in my mind’s eye I see again how he fell against the wall and was so still…’

‘These things pass,’ Triwathon said. ‘They can take time to do so, but… they will pass.’

‘No doubt,’ Parvon said. ‘But I am not entirely sure they should.’


	21. Interlude with Lord Námo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Námo returns to the forest, and Fin gets to see his own send-off...

‘…Are we there yet?’ Glorfindel asked, his voice sleepy in his ears as he blinked – or, rather, his fëa blinked. He was surrounded by sparkling darkness which seemed to be thinning out, somehow, if that was possible…

‘Hush, no, not yet.’ The resonant voice of Lord Námo sounded slightly peeved. ‘We’ve… had to come back.’

‘Wha’?’ Glorfindel mumbled. ‘Where… where’s back?’

His vision clearing, he blinked again and took in the surroundings. They were in a forest.

‘The forest,’ Námo said. ‘Eryn Lasgalen. I had forgotten, these Silvans… they wanted to see the trees where they will rest, hear their names for the last time. Except it isn’t of course.’ Námo cast a dire glance toward a silver-coated form that was vaguely elf-shaped and which was focussed on a procession of elves heading towards an oak. The elves were carrying something on a stretcher – actually a body on a bier, and as Glorfindel and Námo looked on, the fëa sighed and moved a little nearer.

‘Not too close there, Landaer, there’s a good fellow. You don’t want them to sense your presence; they would think you were unhappy with the host tree…’ Námo turned back to Glorfindel. ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen one of these burials… they like to put the bodies under the arches made by the tree roots.’

‘Triwathon told me, yes, it’s… very Silvan, they think the tree absorbs something of the dead, and they live on through the forest. Except there’s Landaer’s fëa, he isn’t going anywhere except back with us, and he’s bringing himself with him, so how…?’

‘It is, indeed, very Silvan,’ Námo said. ‘But it brings them comfort and that’s the important thing. There, they’ve just said his name and in he goes… and then a last little farewell… there. Come now, Landaer, back to your rest. Night of the Names soon, you’ll hear from them shortly. That’s it.’

He gathered the fëa back into his aura where, as far as Glorfindel could tell, it settled down in one of Námo’s capacious pockets and was calm.

‘That’s nearly everyone,’ Námo said. ‘There was almost a riot when I tried to go West from Imladris, my pockets were most unhappy… I’m sorry you were disturbed early, it will be a little while yet, but never mind, I know where they’re going. We can get there ahead of them.’

‘Why?’ Glorfindel asked.

‘You know, I don’t think this stage of death suits you, Findel! You are asking very obvious questions and I remember you as being rather a witty conversationalist. Oh, wait. No, that was Ecthelion, when you were there to bring out the joy in him. Never mind, you’ll be together again soon… now, what was it…? Oh, yes, why. Well, because they’ve decided to treat you to full honours. They don’t often do it, bury a non-Silvan by their rites, but they seem to think it’s fitting…’

*

The glade with the elegant beech was empty when they got there, and Námo smiled as he breathed in the air.

‘This is lovely, don’t you think?’ he asked.

‘Erm… I suppose…’ Glorfindel glanced around, trying to see beyond the confusion that lay over him. ‘No, it’s nice. Very nice. And good of them to do it… poor Triwathon, he’s only going to upset himself, though…’

‘Triwathon is not and never was your fëa-mate, Glorfindel. He is neither your responsibility or your problem.’ Námo sounded almost stern. ‘You can’t help it, I suppose, the way they fall for you and stay fallen in spite of everything…’

‘Oh, it’s not like that,’ Fin said. ‘That is, we had our time, we both knew when it was done. Well, I think we cut it a bit short, but that was because Triwathon had an opportunity to come here and be in charge… so it was the right thing. Anyway, all that’s in the past.’

If Námo had an answer, it didn’t come, for at that moment a solemn procession appeared at the edge of sight, winding through the forest to circle the tree and stop near its arching roots.

‘They brought Asfaloth, look! Doesn’t he look fine?’ Fin said as people arranged themselves in some sort of order. ‘And in his harness, too… Oh, look, is that Parvon? He’s sweet on Triwathon, well, the field’s well and truly clear for him now…’

‘I do not believe that thought is uppermost in his mind at present.’

_‘Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, Balrog-slayer, Seneschal of Imladris, hero, dragon-slayer, friend,’ Parvon’s clear tones rang out. ‘On behalf of Thanduil our Elvenking, I thank you for your service. We are grateful for your sacrifice, for the many lives you saved by your courage and valour. We lay you to rest amongst us, as a Silvan, because you died for Silvans, amongst Silvans, far from home. When the time comes, we will remember you.’_

‘Thank you, Parvon, that’s nice of you. Isn’t that nice of him?’

‘Yes, Glorfindel. They are bent on offering you the best they have. You even have a starlight gemstone, you know.' 

‘Really? Next time you’re passing, tell them thank you, will you? Oh, there’s Triwathon now… he’s looking very brave, isn’t he?’ 

_‘Glorfindel of Gondolin, Laurefindil, brother-in-arms, friend of those in need of protection, the warriors of the New Palace honour your courage,’ Triwathon said, having bowed to Glorfindel’s remains. ‘We will remember you, when the time comes.’_

_Together he and Parvon turned to the gathered elves who repeated:_

_‘We will remember you.’_

The honour-guard moved around the shrouded body and Glorfindel gasped. ‘Is that me? That can’t be me, can it? I’m taller!’ 

‘Your fëa is taller, yes. Now, hush.’ 

_Once Glorfindel’s body had been placed, the honour guard rejoined the company, Parvon spoke again._

_‘And so we lay our friend to rest. Last time he died, he was on a mountainside, and they made him a cairn from stone. But he died for us here, in our forest of Eryn Lasgalen, and so we place him under one of our trees. May his rest be sweet and as his essence mingles with his host, may something of him grow to be part of the forest forever. Our Silvan rites of rest are done. If there are any amongst us who wish to add their own words, according to their traditions, it would honour us.’_

‘Erestor doesn’t look well,’ Glorfindel said, noticing how his old friend struggled to sit on his gentle bay mare, how Arveldir’s attention was all on his husband. 

‘He is not about to join us, Fin, don’t worry. He is a little uncomfortable, nothing more. And sad, of course. For all he has a loving husband, you were his oldest friend.’ 

__Elrohir stepped forward to speak._ _

_‘My brother Elladan and I are considered the leaders of the elves of Imladris where Glorfindel made his home,’ he said in a voice that threatened at any moment to shatter. ‘And I think I speak for us all when I say Fin would be so proud that you love him as one of your own, I… goodbye, Glorfindel. You taught me to fight, but more importantly, you taught me when not to. We will miss you but we will remember you.’_

* 

The burial party had gone. Námo waited for a little space of time before he spoke. 

‘Glorfindel? It is not customary to weep at one’s own burial, you know.’ 

Fin gave a hitching laugh and shook his head. 

‘Can’t cry properly like this anyway,’ he said. ‘But they were so sad. It doesn’t seem right…’ 

‘Well, that’s Silvans for you,’ Námo said with a shrug. ‘Come along, then. Let’s get you home to your husband. He’s missed you.’ 

Glorfindel was gathered up and once more the silver glitter sparkled through the soft darkness to warm and console him. He had no sensation of movement, of time passing, of anything, but then he heard his name, quite clearly from somewhere far away and yet right next to him at the same time… 

_‘…for Glorfindel, not for you… Well…’_

‘My lord? What did you say, Lord Namo?’ 

A sigh from somewhere outside him, a very big sigh, making Glorfindel feel very small. He nestled down and continued. 

‘…only I heard my name…’ 

‘You did.’ Lord Námo’s voice was deep and booming here, all around him, huge without being loud. ‘It was Parvon, who should know better; once laid to rest, once the rites are done, they do not speak the names of their dead except…’ 

‘On special occasions, yes, been to one or two. But that’s odd, I’m not Silvan…’ 

'I think that is why Parvon did not think to guard his tongue. Yet they have laid you to rest as one of themselves…’ 

‘My lord? Is it as they say, does it disturb them? And is it only Silvans, what about other elves? I… I don’t remember anyone calling out our names, but… there were songs and stories about us, our names were everywhere… people must have…’ 

‘It is yet another Silvan thing.’ Námo sighed. ‘They have changed things for themselves by these… beliefs… they have adopted. Otherwise there would be not a moment’s peace in my Halls! No, it is only Silvans. But when one slips up, and says the name, the one called is not disturbed, but pleased to be thought of outside of the observances. Now, never mind about Master Parvon, he does not mean any harm.’ 

‘But what was he saying, what was for me not… for who? Whom, I mean…?’ 

‘The place where they put your body. Parvon believes it the finest tree in Eryn Lasgalen, and so decided that’s where you should be. He did it to make his friend feel better, but didn’t want him to know in case he thought he had done it to make him feel better… honestly, I despair of ever understanding Silvans! Now shush. And go back to sleep.’ 


	22. A Surprise Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arveldir shares an idea with Parvon...

About an hour before Parvon intended to check arrangements in the dining hall for the Yule Eve Feast, a messenger brought him a polite note from Arveldir requesting a few moments, if he could spare them.

Handing over care of the office to the long-suffering, but ever-helpful Faerveren, he made his way to his friend and former mentor’s suite.

‘How is Erestor?’ was his first question when Arveldir opened the door.

‘Parvon, thank you for coming. Please, step in. Erestor is sleeping. ’ Arveldir closed the door and tried to smile. ‘Which you must realise is not usual. Healer Maereth sedated him, in fact; his wounds had reopened, and there is no healing spidersilk left.’

‘I see. I am sorry to hear he has been in pain. I hope you are not too concerned?’

‘Naturally, I am anxious; he is my fëa-mate. But I am assured he will be better when he wakes, and I now learn I can even call on Elrohir to help, if I am really desperate…’ Arveldir shook his head. ‘I hope it will not come to that. Not that I doubt Elrohir’s willingness, but I would rather see his ability tested on another person’s spouse rather than my own… However, you must be busy. I will come to the point. Erestor and I will not be dining in the hall tonight. I do not wish to leave him and, even with the assistive wheeled chair, it will be uncomfortable for him.’

‘I quite understand, of course. I will arrange for you to be served in your rooms.’

Arveldir inclined his head.

‘I am grateful. And thinking ahead… I have sent a note inviting Triwathon to share the private observances with Erestor and me tomorrow night.’

Parvon heard the words almost as if from down a long tunnel. He gulped, tried to compose himself.

_… but how could he, how could Arveldir do this to him? The one night of the year when Triwathon came to him, needed him, Parvon, and nobody else would do, the only occasion when Parvon knew he really, really mattered to the commander… all year he lived on the memory, the hope of the previous and next Night of the Names and now…_

‘What?’ he managed.

‘Parvon? Is anything amiss?’

‘Of course,’ Parvon said, trying to recover his usual manner. ‘If you think… It is well to do so, I am sure. I… I suppose, all these years with only Erestor to share with, or perhaps occasionally Rusdir, it must be something you have missed, sharing the Night of the Names with a fellow-Silvan… although if…’

‘It is not that,’ Arveldir said hastily, aware that somehow he had mis-stepped. ‘My observances at Imladris have always been most fulfilling. I meant simply, knowing of your feelings for the commander, recognising it could be difficult for you to hear him talk of his friend the Balrog-slayer; after all, he will wish to reminisce, to grieve, perhaps – I was in the hopes it would spare you the distress…’

‘I see.’ Parvon took a deep breath, slowly, in through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to balance his emotions. ‘In which case, it is very kind of you. But it is – it has been – it is what we do, Triwathon and I, Lord Arveldir; after the public observances, it is known that the commander and the chief advisor share the honour-meal between privately together. Even when the king is in residence. I wonder if, when it is known that Triwathon comes to your table instead, it might disturb the mood of the populace at a difficult time. Besides which, I have heard Triwathon so often speak of his regard for Glorfindel that one more night would make no difference to me. However…’

‘Parvon!’ Arveldir interrupted, aghast. ‘You … you spoke his name! You named the Seneschal of Imladris! We gave him full Silvan rites!’

‘We did.’ Parvon bowed his head for a moment, but looked back up, unabashed. ‘But he is not Silvan, and no matter how long his remains blur into the forest, no matter how much he becomes one with the trees, he will not become Silvan; he will always be too much himself for that. Besides which, it is my understanding that there is a hiatus for the fëa while Lord Námo enables its transition from shade to denizen of the Halls of Waiting; he will not be aware yet that he is talked of out of season. In any case, you cannot tell me that the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin would not be happy to hear himself spoken of; he will not know the circumstances are not in direct praise of him, even if he is aware of my use of his name.’

‘You may well be right in that,’ Arveldir said. ‘But I think Commander Triwathon might be distressed to hear you put it so.’

‘I will bear that in mind, of course.’ Parvon did not mention that he had already used Glorfindel’s name in Triwathon’s presence, that the commander had not seemed to notice. ‘What time would you like to begin your observances tomorrow? I will need to ensure that we are done with the public ritual in time for the commander to join you. And, of course, I will need to make alternative arrangements for my own commemorations…’

Arveldir almost winced.

‘Ai, Parvon, forgive me!’ he said. ‘I had been thinking so much of sparing you from hearing Triwathon’s grief at his friend’s death that I had not stopped to consider that you have your own names to bring forth. It is too thoughtless of me…’

‘No, do not worry; it would be easily arranged. Healer Maereth keeps a room and is always available for those who have no other to share with. Besides which, Faerveren may like to join me; he will see it as a mark of attention which is well deserved, so hard has he worked, and…’ Parvon paused, as Erestor’s voice from the next room called Arveldir’s name softly, giving him a chance to stop talking what he felt was rapidly becoming gibberish. ‘Your husband is awake – you will want to attend him.’

‘Parvon, if this is not what you wish…’

Parvon smiled, shaking his head. ‘No, Arveldir, it was kindly done, and Triwathon will be pleased at your thoughtfulness. Perhaps you could tell me tomorrow morning what time you decide to host your meal? Please give Erestor my best wishes. Good evening.’

Erestor called again, and as Arveldir turned to answer, Parvon made his escape. 

He hastened to his own quarters, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to cry without really knowing what had distressed him so – Arveldir’s misplaced kind intentions, or the knowledge that this Night of the Names would, indeed, be hard for Parvon, almost as hard to hear Triwathon’s grief as it would be for the commander to speak it. Or perhaps it was simply the enormity of everything that had happened in such a short space of time that now made Parvon shake and tremble and feel utterly miserable.

Whatever it was, he locked the door, hid himself away beneath the washing cascade which he hoped would drown out any sound he might make (or which might come from outside such as a knock on his door) and attempted to purge his emotional excesses beneath the streaming water.

As the hot needles hit and splashed on his skin, he began to find clarity. 

Previously, he realised, he had coped with Triwathon talking about Glorfindel, knowing the emotions between them, knowing, also, that Glorfindel was only ever going to go back to his Ecthelion; Parvon had been able to accept Triwathon not seeing himself as a possible lover, not while the commander’s eyes were full of the Balrog-slayer – Parvon was just not good enough to compare, he knew that, had always known it. But now the Seneschal of Imladris was dead, really, really gone from Triwathon’s life, and Parvon had to face the fact that he still wasn’t going to be good enough, and that… that was what hurt. It didn’t matter that Glorfindel’s name would no longer be discussed, or referenced, or would be deliberately avoided; it was just one fewer thing about which Triwathon would be able to unburden himself to Parvon, one reason fewer for them to talk together… and without Glorfindel as a foil against which to pitch himself, Parvon was certain, deep down in his fëa, that he would never measure up in Triwathon’s eyes. Arveldir’s invitation to Triwathon had just taken away one of those precious occasions which at least gave Parvon a chance to at least be an understanding, needed friend to Triwathon.

The water washed, rinsed, removed another layer of self-defence and Parvon shook his head in denial, defiance… Ai! But he hated himself for longing for the commander’s approval. On one level, there was a part of him that still recalled his outrage when he had first realised his fëa wanted Triwathon, then nowhere near as respectable a person as he was now… and at times like this, that younger, outraged Parvon would rise up from some part of him with a reminder that perhaps Parvon deserved better than a poacher’s assistant, that maybe he should just accept he would never find complete romantic happiness; there were, after all, people whose fëa-mates were unavailable and they found some comfort in the affection of those who were almost a perfect match, such as the relationship between Triwathon and Glorfindel had been… or perhaps Parvon should just jump on a ship and sail to the Undying Lands, even if he was Silvan and supposed to disdain such things as the Promise…

He turned resolutely under the stippling rain, ignoring what might have been a knock on the door. It was just his imagination, and were it not, then whatever the problem might be, it would keep. For it seemed to him that nobody ever came seeking him unless there was a problem he might solve, a difficulty about which he might advise. True, it was his job, but sometimes it felt almost like a burden…

The streams from the washing cascade ran cold; not even the improved plumbing of the New Palace was a match for Parvon’s mood. Even so, it was less shocking to him than the thought of leaving Erin Lasgalen. He stayed where he was beneath the chill slivers of water; after all, he was an elf; what was a little cold to him, who had endured so much more over the years?

*

Triwathon found a frown trying to settle on his face and determined not to let it; people had been through enough without the added anxiety of wondering what the Commander might be worried about. Besides, it was a personal worry, not anything the community of elves ought to worry about.

Parvon had disappeared. 

The commander had knocked on his door, sought him in all the usual places, looked in the unusual places also, but to no avail. Nor was Faerveren in the office, which he found locked and shut and empty… he sighed. Stuffed inside the inner pocket of his tunic was a note from Arveldir, a most unexpected message, and it was about this that he particularly wished to consult his friend before sending any reply… and, precisely because he had yet to reply, he shied away from knocking on Arveldir’s door in search of Parvon, telling himself that, apart from anything else, it would be unkind to disturb his old friend…

Finally, needing to share his concerns with someone, he went in search of Faerveren who really seemed to be the only person left who might know what was going on…

*

Faerveren moved frantically around the dining hall, trying to do both his jobs and Parvon’s for, surprisingly, the Chief Advisor had not arrived back when expected and so he had begun the task of ensuring all was ready by himself.

'Have you seen Parvon?' Commander Triwathon came into the hall, apparently in a hurry. 'I was expecting to find him in the Palace Office, but the door is secured...'

'Not recently. He went to speak with Lord Arveldir. He did not expect it would take long, so when he did not return I thought best to begin here. Of course, I sent there to enquire, but he had left some time previously, I was told.'

‘I see. I was really hoping to speak with him ahead of the meal this evening, a matter of… well. Not to worry, but I am concerned; you must admit, it is not like him to absent himself at moments such as this…’

'I am a little surprised, myself, of course by his absence... I wonder if he might be with Healer Maereth? I think there was a suggestion that it might be good for her to report tonight on the wellbeing of those in her care; perhaps he went to seek her there to discuss it?’

‘That is a good thought; I will go and see. And, Faerveren, it is not my place, I know, but… the hall looks very fine. You have worked hard.'


	23. The Efficiency of Faerveren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the underscribe once more shows his helpfulness...

Eventually Parvon turned off the cold water and left the chill sanctuary of the washing cascade. He wrapped a towel about his hips and automatically fingered through his wet hair as he looked again at the enormity of the thought of leaving the forest.

It had never occurred to him before to sail.

For Silvans, it was a personal choice, but the majority of those who were still in Eryn Lasgalen were die-hard bound-to-the-forest types who would as soon fade as sail. For Parvon, the question had simply never arisen; he served the King’s Office, and so while there was a king to serve, he would do so. Besides, the knowledge that Triwathon was unlikely to take ship himself had previously, perhaps, coloured his perspective.

But now the fact that the beloved of his fëa was unlikely ever to sail was more of an argument against remaining in the forest; if Parvon truly could not bear to stay while his love for Triwathon remained unrequited, if the sense continued to grow in him that he was better off alone, then perhaps he would have to reconsider…

A knocking at his door, anxious and tentative, and he called out in response, belatedly realising he had heard several similar such knocks some time previously and had pretended not to while under the cascade. Now he was probably wanted somewhere for something.

‘Yes?’

‘It is I, Faerveren, Master Parvon.' the voice of his underscribe said through the door. 'It is almost time for the meal to be called. Are you well?’

The Yule Eve Feast. Was it that late already? He had intended helping prepare for it, was all as it should be? Had been needed to help, and not responded? He padded barefoot to the door, the towel clinging, his hair still dripping, and admitted his junior scribe.

‘I am sorry to intrude, sir.’ Something about Parvon’s bedraggled demeanour made Faerveren strive to be more than usually polite. ‘I thought you would like to know that the hall is ready, the top table rearranged since we had word that Lord Arveldir and Master Erestor are dining privately. I have given orders that they be served the best that we have.’

‘Thank you, Faerveren. I really do not know what we would do without you.’

Faerveren shuffled, uncomfortable with praise.

‘It is an honour to serve. Although there is more of a warrior element to the top table than there would have been, had Master Erestor been well enough to attend. And I should inform you that Commander Triwathon expressed concern as to your whereabouts. He said there was a matter he wished to discuss with you ahead of the meal, if possible; I sent him to Healer Maereth, saying you might be there… otherwise he would have come here again and I thought if you had not heard his knock the first time, it may have been because you were so deep in your thoughts that not even the knocking disturbed you…’

‘Faerveren. I was in the washing cascade…’

‘I rather thought you must have been, Master, since you appear to be wet, still,’ Faerveren said, drawing a small smile from Parvon. ‘The Yule Eve Feast awaits.’

‘Very well.’ Parvon sighed. ‘I do not suppose I can plead indisposition, not tonight of all nights. But I confess I have never felt less like celebrating…’

‘I understand, of course. And you must know that other people than Triwathon will worry, if they do not see their Chief Advisor at the top table. Besides, we are alive, we have survived multiple dragons and that must be an occasion of relief and gratitude, if not yet of joy.’

‘You are right. Never fear; I will be in the hall presently.’

‘If you wish, I could wait outside while you dress, and walk across with you?’

‘Faerveren, I am very grateful; your companionship will make facing the populace much easier. But there’s no reason why you can’t sit and be comfortable while I get ready.’

*

It did not take long to get his hair under control and hurry into his formal robes of office. Parvon returned just a few moments later to find Faerveren had prodded the embers of the fire into a glowing heat, found the spirits bottle and had poured a glass of the rich, amber liquid which he handed to Parvon with the smallest of bows.

‘For it seems you grew cold under the washing cascade, and it may help warm you,’ the underscribe said. ‘May I ask? Your hair…? A single plait, sir? It looks like a travelling braid, and that will not sit well with the people; they will wonder where you might be going…’

‘I had not thought.’ Really, he had not; as Faerveren noted, it was the style most often used when journeying; perhaps the thought of taking ship had been playing on him still, so that it was the unconscious action of his hands responding to the thought of leaving. ‘… it was just that my hair being wet, and we are in haste…’

‘Not that much haste. Sit, drink.’ Faerveren tilted his head to one side, a habit of his when venturing something that might seem inappropriate. ‘If you will, I could assist…? I have quite deft fingers, sir, it will not take long…’

‘You are very kind. My thanks, again.’ 

Parvon sat sideways on the sofa so that Faerveren could reach his hair, his thoughts taking him back to the night he had Triwathon’s head in his own hands, braiding the commander to keep the hair from disturbing him, the comfort it had brought them both, in different ways… of course, Faerveren was simply being his usual efficient, helpful self, there was nothing more to this than simple practicality, but still, it was good to relax under another’s touch as the travelling braid came out, to allow another to take charge for a brief moment and know it was safe to do so.

‘I usually put in two side braids and…’

‘Master Parvon. I do know how you braid your hair; you have worn it just the same ever since I started working here! Two narrow side-braids to start.’

These went in, just above Parvon’s ears, swiftly and with not even a tug at his scalp.

‘Might I ask, what else has happened, sir?’ Faerveren asked as he began on the long braids Parvon wore below the side-braiding. ‘You are obviously burdened with more matters than when last we spoke…’

‘Nothing. Not really; that is, I find I may need to make alternative arrangements for the Night of the Names…’

‘Indeed? Is this something with which I might help?’ Faerveren moved on to the matching long braid. ‘I have promised Healer Maereth I will join her in her healing rooms early in the evening, but after that, I am available…’

‘I am not quite certain, yet, about my own observances, that is all. Lord Arveldir has extended an invitation to Commander Triwathon to share with them, and…’

‘Oh, that would never do!’ Faerveren said, his hands pausing just for a heartbeat. ‘Lord Arveldir cannot know, of course, that we have our own order to things here, and that such an innovation to our usual practice without good reason would be seen as tantamount to yet another disaster among our dear Silvan friends! Would you like me to explain to him, sir?’

The thought of Faerveren approaching Lord Arveldir with such an intention made Parvon both shudder and smile.

‘No, that won’t be necessary. Of course, you are right; Arveldir does not know our ways, he has been here only as a guest and visitor; I do not doubt he meant it kindly.’

‘I wonder, sir… the matter Commander Triwathon wished to raise – he seemed quite urgent – perhaps it was this? Might it be he wished to discuss the invitation with you first, before he replied to it? Might he really have wished for advice on how to refuse?’

‘I suppose… but it is entirely his choice, of course.’

‘Perhaps, if the commander wishes to spend the evening with Lord Arveldir, you might also be included in the invitation? It would look better to the people and I am sure you are just as much a friend to Arveldir as is Triwathon…’

‘Thank you. Triwathon and Arveldir recuperated together after the Battle Under the Trees; there is a certain kind of closeness when persons recover from near-death together, I think. It seems to me it would be unkind to encourage a refusal of the inivitation, and your notion is a good one. Yet I would not wish to intrude… but, as you say, it would be more seemly to the populace than otherwise…’

‘Well, if you should need my assistance, sir…’ Faerveren completed the matching braid and moved on to the last of the structural plaits, the one Parvon wore on the crown of his head and which incorporated the two side-braids, making a thicker braid which fastened neatly with a clasp. ‘That is done, I think.’

‘My thanks, Faerveren.’ Parvon drained his goblet and set it down. ‘I am most grateful. Now, if we hasten, we will not be very late.’

‘Besides, arriving together, it will seem simply that we have been engaged on Palace business. Which, in a sense, we have, since we were discussing, however obliquely, the arrangements for the Night of the Names. And to that end, sir, once I am finished with my duties with Healer May tomorrow night, I will hold myself in readiness for a summons, should you need me.’


	24. Announcement at the Yule Eve Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon makes an announcement...

‘Are you come to collect me, Commander?’ Healer Maereth asked when Triwathon arrived at her healing rooms. ‘I was told that speaking of the wellbeing of my charges might cheer the hall, even though I had not intended dining with the company tonight. But as I am told it will do people good, somehow, I am prepared to take the time to share the feast; it is Yule Eve, after all. I will be ready in a moment.’

‘I… of course. Mae, have you seen Parvon, at all…?’

‘Oh… oh, no, the invitation came by note… I expect he is much too busy to run his own errands, especially tonight. He’ll be at the feast, of course, although if he’ll sit still long enough to eat… I do worry about him, you know. Well, I will only be a moment…’

She patted his hand and reached up to remove the head-rail that signified her office just as her assistant called across that help was needed to attend to someone in a side room.

‘It’s so kind of you to wait and escort me, Commander,’ Maereth said as she patted his hand and hurried off, and so, of course, he had to wait… 

…and then, when Maereth finally emerged some long minutes later, he was obliged to show no impatience, to match his stride to hers, and even to try to talk to her. 

Usually, he would have been quite happy to do so; he liked Maereth, she was conscientious and hard-working, well-versed in Silvan traditional healing and exceptionally good at her job. But tonight, he wanted to get to the hall and have a few words with Parvon ahead of the feast, if at all possible…

He bit back a sigh of exasperation as he realised it would not be possible. 

Arriving at the hall, he found most of the benches already full, the top table populated with just a few places empty. Parvon was there, looking pale, Triwathon thought, his hair damp and but as neatly braided as usual. Faerveren was ushering people to their places, an air of haste about him belied by his pleasant smile. 

While Arveldir and Erestor were not present, Elrohir was there, Rusdir at his side, a couple of their visiting Galadhrim friends with them. Thiriston and Canadion were at the other end of the top table with Celeguel and Amathel, and as Triwathon headed for the seat next to Parvon’s, he was hailed by the captains and so had to pause for a moment, by which time Maereth had taken the seat next to Parvon so that Triwathon must needs take the last empty place between her and Elrohir where she was an insubstantial, unwitting, but still effective, barrier between himself and the head of the Palace Office. 

Faerveren called the hall to order and signalled the servers to send the wine round before taking his place on Parvon’s other side. Triwathon bit back a sigh as Parvon rose to his feet; any chance of talking to him would have to wait until after the meal now.

*

Parvon glanced around the table and saw Triwathon’s grimace of frustration without knowing quite why the commander was annoyed. Even so, he nodded an acknowledgement to him in what he hoped was his usual manner as he prepared to speak,. He kept his expression cool and formal, for the gathered elves had to be his focus now, the business of the moment taking precedence over his own feelings. 

‘Be welcome, all,’ he began. ‘Galadhrim guests, visitors from Imladris beyond the mountains, we greet you and offer thanks for your assistance. Silvans – my kin, my friends. This is not the Yule Eve Feast we were hoping for. But we are here, we have survived, and who, during the attack, could have hoped so many of us would still be here to gather and feast the Dark of the Year? I honour you, your many sacrifices, your boundless courage.’ 

Raising his glass to them, he bowed his head and continued.

‘And our friends from Imladris,’ he continued. ‘Unlooked for they came to our aid, and they will be returning home, in due course, with their own injuries and loss and grief. The assistance they have given us is inestimable; our own losses would have been far higher but for the selfless courage of the Seneschal of Imladris, the Balrog-slayer whom we honour as one of our own. We will remember him, and all those who have died. Tomorrow is the Night of the Names; do not be afraid to speak freely then of all those who we will not see again on this side of the Sundering Seas. Word has gone to the Old Palace and no doubt help will soon come. Before we begin our meal, Healer Maereth will speak about those in her care, and then Commander Triwathon will give the garrison report. Healer Mae?’

‘Master Parvon.’ Maereth got to her feet and began in a shaky voice that gathered strength as she went along. ‘Yes. It has been hard, but we will be well. Those who came in injured have been treated, and while there are many still in my halls, they are healing… we have run out of healing spider silk, but we are managing without, and…’

Parvon let his attention drift away from Maereth’s hopeful tales of elflings reunited with their parents, of no more deaths. Triwathon kept glancing at him, frowning – scowling, almost – and he wondered why. Was it something he had done? Did he think the invitation from Arveldir his doing, in some way, did he take it as a rejection? Or was it something else, was Parvon simply projecting and not the reason of the frown at all?

‘…lists of the injured outside on the usual boards,’ Mae was saying. ‘And there are still three elflings without family come to claim them, so if anyone knows the whereabouts of their parents or brothers, aunts or uncles… there are lists for those, too, on the notice boards… and that is all.’

‘Healer Mae, thank you,’ Parvon said, rising from his seat again. ‘It is a good point about the lists. We are continually updating them when we have news of anyone whose location had been unknown, so if you are still lacking someone, the information as to their whereabouts may well be on the boards; people who have lost their homes are being allocated rooms in the palace, of course. It is difficult for my office to keep track of every elf in the New Palace, and so you would do better to look there first for news rather than trusting to my memory. Now, Commander? Will you speak about our security?’

‘Chief Advisor, my thanks.’ Triwathon got to his feet with an air of tiredness clinging to him still. ‘We are as safe as we could possibly be. The watch is redoubled on the flets, the boundaries are secure, the doors are guarded. Word has gone out to the Old Palace, as you have heard, and we expect a response shortly. Our garrison is in good heart and we are fortunate to be bolstered by the volunteered services of elves from elsewhere… the fires are out and it would seem the danger is past. But if it is not, we are prepared to meet it with all our courage and might. I must still insist, however, on everyone staying within the palace boundaries unless part of an official burial procession; I know you wish to see what may be left of your homes, but it is not worth risking your lives for. Once we have word from the Old Palace, we can rethink, but until then, I ask for your patience and co-operation.’

With a brisk nod to Parvon he took his place again, leaving it to the Chief Advisor to address the hall once more.

‘So, in a spirit of hope, knowing our boundaries are safe, the wine has gone round, let the food be set, and let us join in the Yule Eve sharing of the Feast.’

Placed as he was between Maereth and Faerveren, Parvon felt safe, somehow, sheltered from the rest of the hall. It was odd, too, that this was the first time their king was not resident amongst them at Yule; it had been a mark of how far they’d come, that Thranduil had seen fit to leave the New Palace in Parvon and Triwathon’s care… of course, it had not gone well… Parvon thought again of the helplessness of knowing that had the message from the Old Palace been delivered in time, they would have been able to evacuate the villages, to prepare against the attack…

It was all just too sad to think about, and this was meant to be a happy occasion. At the Old Palace, the Yule Eve Feast started early and finished late, with no set times, so that everyone could come when suited them, or according to their duty shifts, or their elflings’ bedtimes; the dining hall had been busy and bustling with arrivals and leavers… here, they tried to echo that sense of freedom, of coming and going as one chose, but tonight the hall was full, as if everyone had tried to arrive at the same time, as if people were huddling together to feel safe.

The servers set food for him, hot and rich, and the aromas kindled something akin to hunger in him, but really, his appetite was hardly there. Still, he ate, for it would have been wasteful otherwise and he had to try to keep his strength up; there would be busy days ahead. The vexed problem of Triwathon’s invitation filled his thoughts as he tried to look as if he was savouring the food, and an idea began to form, based in part on something Faerveren had said; that the populace would be dismayed if it were known that Parvon and Triwathon were not sharing private observances without good reason. Except… he thought he might have found one…

‘Master Parvon?’ Triwathon had leaned forward to address him, Maereth obligingly shuffling back a little with a smile. ‘I’ve been trying all day to catch up with you, it seems – I need to have a word…’

‘Yes; I have been busy, unfortunately.’ Parvon did not explain the nature of his busyness. ‘However, might it wait until after the meal?’

‘Yes, it might… as long as you do not allow yourself to be swamped with questions from our good elves before I have chance…’

Parvon gave a polite smile. ‘I might say, also, as long as you manage to avoid being surrounded by queries from the garrison…’

‘And I might say, perhaps I ought to return to my healing duties and you can carry on your conversation more easily?’ Maereth put in with a laugh. ‘For it is difficult for you to talk with me here…’

‘No, stay, Maereth, please!’ Parvon said, not yet ready to have any conversation with Triwathon since he was sure it would turn to the matter of Arveldir’s invitation. The idea which was forming about how he could make all well was not yet quite finished in his mind. ‘We did not mean to give the impression you were in the way…’ 

‘But I am finished eating…’

Faerveren slid from his seat and grabbed a bottle from the end of the table, coming to stand behind the Healer and fill her goblet.

‘You have not finished drinking, though. Stay, Healer Mae! You have worked so hard, you deserve a little time away from your halls.’

‘Ai, it is a conspiracy!’ she said, throwing up her hands in mock-despair. ‘The entire weight of the Palace Office against me, how might I resist? Very well, I thank you. But no more wine after this. Master Parvon, if you like, though, we could swap places; I will be quite comfortable next to Master Faerveren.’

‘It’s too much to ask,’ Parvon said, but Maereth had already risen and so he could do nothing except himself stand, and move back for her to take his former seat. 

And there was Triwathon, looking up at him, impatience in his eyes, and the last thing Parvon wanted to do was hear from his friend’s own mouth how unimportant he was suddenly become, and so he took his half-shaped idea and forced it into words, focussing on that phrase of Faerveren’s onto which he could latch his speech, for, having risen, he was being looked at by most of the diners who assumed he had something more to say and so, he said it. 

‘While I am on my feet…’ he began...

*

Triwathon’s relief when Maereth had moved, giving him the chance to speak more easily to his friend turned to annoyance when Parvon looked away and, instead of sitting down, started addressing the hall.

‘…While I am on my feet, and have your attention,’ he began, ‘there is one further matter I wish to mention. It is nothing of note; not a matter of concern, that is. But we have our own habits here, and I know if this were made known without explanation, some of you might worry. And so. Given our recent losses, there will be a variation in practice for tomorrow’s evening commemorations… so many of us have been touched, some less grievously than others; I myself, although I knew all of our honoured dead, was not close to any. Yet there are those close to me who have lost the dearest of friends… that being the case, we intend setting up another station for observances, in the Palace Office, where I will officiate for those whose losses are not so awful as those suffered by so many of you. This frees up the Healers for those whose need is greatest, and also allows my dear friend and former mentor Lord Arveldir, and his spouse, to share the observances with our own Commander Triwathon; thus both will…’

Triwathon stared up at the Chief Advisor whose own gaze was resolutely on the hall; even when he named the commander he gave just the briefest of glances, the slightest gesture, looking away again almost immediately…

iWhat had Parvon just said? How had he known about the invitation, how could he have known…? Impossible. Unbelievable; Parvon had just committed him to a course of action he had not actually acknowledged yet; now he must accept the invitation whether he wanted or no…

‘…will benefit as Lord Arveldir and his husband have shared in the Lord of Gondolin’s recent years, and Command Triwathon was his dear friend…’ Parvon paused to let this sink in, to breathe, to allow the hall to settle, to settle himself. Yes, this was the way, the only way to retain some sort of control over events, to prevent himself feeling lost and helpless and no longer needed. ‘When first I mentioned that the commander and I might not share the Night of the Names, I was told by one whose opinion I value that it would never do, that everyone was so used to us commemorating together that any variation would be shocking and upsetting. I do hope this is not the case; I am really not so interesting that my arrangements need be a matter of broader discussion… besides which, we are currently engaged in a different celebration, so I will finish, and just say that the details will, of course, be on the boards, although not until after the day meal tomorrow. Arrangements have yet to be finalised.’

The hall did not quite go into uproar, but enough people looked surprised and shocked that Parvon decided to take his leave. He bowed, murmured something to Faerveren about please to take over, and left the table, finding the shadows and blending in so that his actual point of exit would be unnoticed. Only Triwathon, watching, saw and marked which door he used as he left the hall in search of a little quiet time to properly think through the entirety of what he had just done.


	25. A Few Hours Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon confronts Parvon concerning his announcement...

Triwathon hurried from the hall, his longer stride making it easy for him to catch up with Parvon in the corridor.

‘Parvon! Wait! What was that…?’ 

Parvon froze. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid, at least until he’d sorted out the jumble of emotions warring in him. Still, he made himself turn and incline his head, made himself try to be professional.

‘Oh, Commander, yes. You wanted a word, I believe?’  
  
'How can you just…? Yes, I did, I did want a word… I wanted to talk to you about an invitation from Arveldir…’

‘It was most thoughtful and kind of him, and I am sure he is just the person to tell you of your friend’s latter years in Imlad…’

‘I was going to refuse!’ Triwathon’s voice was hurt, shaking, as if he were the injured party, as if all Parvon’s pain was invisible.

‘But you have not. And yet you said you had been seeking me all day to discuss the invitation. We both know it is courteous to decline an invitation immediately if one does not intend accepting, so this suggested to me that you wanted to accept…’

‘No. Well, I… but no. Arveldir is a good friend, and I value him highly, and… but I don’t want to know of the latter years, not if my friend had… but…’

‘You are undecided, you see, torn between what you see as duty, and Arveldir’s invitation, which you have think I interpreted more as a request.’ Parvon swallowed; it was hard, so hard, to keep his voice calm, to answer as if this was just a matter of palace business, and Triwathon, standing there looking almost heartbroken wasn’t helping matters… ‘All I have done is make it easy for you; there is no reason now that you cannot spend the evening with Arveldir and Erestor; I am sure it will make the observances more fulfilling for all concerned.’ 

‘But, Parvon, I… and… I wanted your advice, how to refuse… we always…’

‘Yes, I know. But now you don’t have to refuse. Besides, my personal losses are distant; yours are fresh and painful. It is no comparison; I barely knew the Seneschal of Imladris, my own remembrances would seem paltry by comparison, and I would not wish to appear to be belittling your loss by not offering anything like so much at the observances.’

Triwathon waved this aside, in no mood to be reasonable, not sure why he was so outraged. He picked on the first thing that occurred to him.

‘But I had no choice!’

‘On the contrary; Arveldir sent you a note just so that did not have to look him in the eye and decide there and then what you wanted to do. He deliberately gave you time to make up your mind; you had all day to decline, if you wanted to. But you did not.’

‘How did you know?’

‘What?’

‘About the invitation being in a note? How could you know that? Did you plan this together? Did you ask Arveldir to help, are you tired of sharing the observances with me, is that why you did it? Or is it just… him, my dead friend? Are you jealous of the love we had, not even fëa-mates and it was so much, do you think it will be too hard for you? I could understand that, but why didn’t you say to me first instead of involving Arveldir?’ 

‘I…’ Parvon took a step back at this onslaught of insinuations, aghast. ‘Almost I do not know where to start with all these… these accusations! Yes, I knew of the invitation – Arveldir sent for me this afternoon to tell me he wouldn’t be dining in the hall. While I was there, he also mentioned he had sent you a message suggesting you share the Night with him and Erestor. He really seemed to believe it a good thought. You surely don’t think I would stoop so low as to involve a respected advisor in such scheming as you suggest? Or that I would not honour you with the courtesy to tell you to your face if I were tired of your sorrow, or afraid to share your worst grief? Is that what you think of me, do you think so little of me?’

‘But to just throw it out to the hall like that…’

‘So that if word got round, people would not protest, as if it were anyone’s business except our own. Now, would you like me to let Arveldir know what time you’ll be free to join him, or do you think you can manage that yourself?’

‘I… no, don’t trouble. You’ve obviously got a lot to do, with the new setting for the Observances to arrange.’

Parvon made himself smile, a ghost of his usual expression.

‘When do any of us not have a lot to do? Thank you, Commander. Goodnight. I’ll see you at the morning procession for the last of the lost, no doubt.’

‘No doubt. That’s all, then.’

Triwathon sighed and watched Parvon walk away down the corridor. He was tempted to call after him, apologise, to suggest a drink, a shared bottle of wine in his rooms, or Parvon’s, but there was something, a distance to his friend that suggested he’d only be refused… straight away, no doubt, out of courtesy…

*

Parvon, turning a corner, reeled as he felt the enormity of being alone in the suddenly huge and empty corridor. He sighed. It was true, there was much to arrange, and to do so knowing Triwathon was unhappy and perhaps even annoyed with him did not make the prospect particularly enticing.

But still. There was a palace complex to run, to keep together at a difficult time, and he could not afford the luxury of dwelling on his own feelings. As Triwathon had said, it would have been painful for him to hear how much Glorfindel had been loved, and would be missed, but it was not jealousy, nothing like it; for the sake of being useful to Triwathon, he would have put up with much more, but Arveldir’s well-meaning invitation had really taken it out of his hands… and while he had hoped that making his announcement in the hall would give him a sense of control, now he simply felt more at a loss than ever; Triwathon was not even appreciative of his efforts and his accusation that Parvon had even asked Arveldir to intervene stung and smarted… 

Reaching his rooms he looked towards the washing cascade, but shook his head. He had already wasted far too much water trying to wash his emotions away and it hadn’t helped. Nor, he told himself, would drinking, but even so he poured himself a goblet of wine and sat by his banked fire, trying to stop the shaking inside, trying to be objective and positive about this disaster of a day.

*

An hour later he was still there, nursing the same goblet of wine, the embers of the fire dull grey with only faint hints of life, his thoughts circling with no way out showing, when he heard a noise outside in the corridor. Expecting a knock, and deciding to ignore it when it came, he was surprised when instead a note was slipped underneath.

Rising to see, he recognised Faerveren’s writing, and opened the door to look out; Faerveren was there, about to back away, but on seeing his master he bowed politely.

‘I did not intend to disturb you, my apologies, sir.’

‘Come in, Faerveren. You are not who I expected to see, so be welcome.’ He picked up the folded missive. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what this is about?’

‘It would be easier, I think.’ Faerveren took the seat Parvon gestured him towards, shook his head when offered wine. ‘After you left, sir, there were questions from the hall, of course. Then Commander Triwathon returned and asked me whether or not I would be involved with the new observances. I said I had offered to help – here he interrupted me and said, why was he not surprised? Which, I must admit, was unexpected… is the commander quite well, sir?’

The question drew a rueful smile.

‘He is heartbroken and trying not to notice,’ Parvon replied. ‘Lord Glorfindel’s death is still too close for him. Moreover, the invitation from Lord Arveldir was, perhaps, not as welcome as I had assumed it would be. So now he feels, I think, that I have made up his mind for him, perhaps in collusion with Arveldir, and Triwathon sees in that a rejection, an implication I no longer wish to share the Night of the Names with him…’

‘But that is not the case, of course,’ Faerveren said. ‘It was obvious how perturbed you had been by this change of plan. May I say, your response was quite brilliant, sir? There is a need for just such a tone of remembrance as you suggest, it will take the strain off Healer Mae and her assistant who would perhaps otherwise be swamped with people needing to share with someone. This way, there is somewhere else for them to go. Of course, I will gladly assist…’

‘My thanks, Faerveren. Yes, I will need help, I think. So. After the ceremony for the last of our dead tomorrow morning, you must take the rest of the day for yourself. Spend time doing what you like to do, and then report to the Palace Office once the formal observances in the main hall are underway.’

‘Thank you, sir; I really won’t need all that time, but… perhaps a few hours away is a good idea.’


	26. '...Not That Interesting...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the last of the fallen are laid to rest...

It would take more than a few hours for Parvon’s state of mind to settle, he thought, once Faerveren had gone. No matter what he tried, his thoughts kept dragging him from the brink of reverie and back to Triwathon, the awkwardness in the corridor, the sudden stiff animosity that seemed to have risen, like a wall unbreachable, between them. Moreover, the words Faerveren had seen fit to share from the commander, his lack of surprise at the knowledge that the underscribe had offered his help… Parvon wondered whether Triwathon was seeing things that were not there in Faerveren’s eagerness to be of service, or whether it was himself not seeing things that were...

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. And Faerveren had never showed any signs of being emotionally drawn towards anyone; it was probably just Triwathon venting his grief in yet another way.

For it was obvious the commander was grieving, still, and why would he not be? Glorfindel had been so much to him and for Triwathon there was no consolation of a future reunion, for even if Triwathon were to decide to sail to the Undying Lands, the Seneschal of Imladris was unlikely to be waiting for him on the quayside; Glorfindel had always made it clear his beloved Ecthelion was the one he was going back to.

It was hard, loving someone who didn’t love you, or didn’t love you in the same way. Parvon knew it, had felt the bittersweet pain of it over too many years, but all he could do was sympathise at a distance… and given Triwathon’s current mood, probably at a long distance…

Morning came just as he finally found sleep, it seemed. The breakfast meeting was organised by Faerveren, and when Parvon got to the Palace office, his underscribe had already set breakfast for three, Narunir deputising for Triwathon for some reason Parvon didn’t even hear, let alone comprehend. 

‘Lord Arveldir and Master Erestor regret they will not be attending the rites for the fallen,’ Faerveren said. ‘Master Erestor is much recovered, but still not comfortable walking and the paths outside being what they are… However, Lord Arveldir has said they will be at the doors, and after that, will be glad to sit here and answer any queries that come in.’

‘That is very kind. I know they would both have wished to be present. Narunir, how is the heart of the garrison presently?’ Parvon asked, just as he would have Triwathon, but aware on some peripheral level that Triwathon perhaps might not have had the heart himself to be fully aware of the mood of his troops.

‘We are recovering, although there is a sense of shame that others died and were injured doing our tasks,’ the captain replied with a rueful attempt at a smile. ‘Especially one so renowned as the Lord of Gondolin, that he should die here, amongst Silvans…’

‘Silvans who honoured and loved him,’ Faerveren said. ‘I was not in the Old Palace when the news came of the Battle of the Three Dragons, but it is known that he helped amongst our injured, even healing our king. And, after a dispute with Imladris, he claimed sanctuary amongst us for a time.’

It was perhaps not the history that Parvon had heard from Triwathon, nor was it in the official record, but he let it stand; anything that would help Glorfindel’s death seem less guilt-inducing to the garrison could only help.

‘It is no good trying to apportion blame, or feeling guilty,’ Parvon said. ‘As soon as the warning sounded, you responded, Narunir. You, everyone, did what you could…’

‘I had home duty, if you remember…’

‘I do remember. I heard from the survivors how you and your guard went out and carried the injured home, not knowing if the skies were clear. Sometimes one’s duty is the hardest thing to do, Captain. And once sheltered here, those frightened elves felt safe, because you, and your company, made them feel so.’ Parvon lifted a shoulder. ‘Particularly as your commander was otherwise occupied.’

‘The poor commander, he does feel his friend’s death so,’ Narunir said with a sigh. ‘They say it is better to have loved and lost, but for myself, I think I am glad to be unattached.’

*

Erestor may have been too unwell, still, to attend the rites, but that did not prevent him and Arveldir joining the rest of the populace lining the way from the doors to the gates as the processions of the last, small remains of the dead were carried in honour from the New Palace. They stood silently as the biers went past, each strewn with leaves from the tree favoured in life by the elf and commemorating them now in death. Erestor bowed his head and brought his hand across his heart to honour the biers’ passing.

Led by an honour guard from the garrison, and with Parvon and Faerveren walking behind with the relatives following and others joining on after, the burial party made its way from the New Palace and out through the forest on the widest paths to where the way diverged for the three villages diverged. There a place had been prepared, and after the appropriate calls and responses, after short speeches from the families, from Parvon for the Palace Office, and Triwathon for the garrison, Parvon gave the sign, Triwathon nodded, and the remains were laid to rest, the deputation from the garrison raising a cairn quickly around and over them, relations and friends adding their own stones to the construction.

Parvon waited to see it done. He stood and watched those who were not friends or kin turned towards the palace, barely looking round at the devastation of the forest. He stood until Faerveren touched his sleeve.

‘Sir, we may leave whenever you are ready.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Parvon sighed. ‘This is all so awful, seeing it again, remembering what it was like in the dark, with the smoke hanging everywhere and dragons in the skies… The forest will come back, we know this. But… can we?’

‘Master Parvon?’

‘Forgive me. It is hard, today, to see a future for us here. I think the king may wish to withdraw us back to the Old Palace… and what have we achieved, except the deaths of those we will miss forever?’

‘I… My Daerada Merenor is fond of saying, we can never know what might happen. There may be disasters, there may be miracles. But whatever they are, they show us that we are here, and we are alive, and there is always a reason to rejoice, if you look hard enough.’

Parvon nodded and smiled. 

‘Your Daerada has a way of looking for the best everywhere,’ he said. ‘And more often than not, he seems to find it. You go on, Faerveren; this is your rest day, remember?’

‘Are you sure, sir?’

‘I am quite sure. I will expect to see you dressed for duty in in the dining hall tonight, but until then, try to relax. You deserve it.’

He waited for Faerveren to be out of sight before turning away himself. Aware that just the work detail remained, with Triwathon watching, he wanted to be gone before it looked as if he was waiting for the commander to join him; so far today Triwathon had not so much as glanced at him, but whether that was simply the solemnity of the morning or a response to some perceived slight from the previous night was uncertain.

Not taking the direct path – he wanted to see more of the forest close to the palace, to read its mood – he set off, believing himself unobserved. One thing about working for the King’s Offices, one learned when to be a presence in a room, when to be unobtrusive and blend into the shadows. And so it was a little bit of a surprise when, after just a few moments, a voice from the canopy dropped down to him.

‘By rights I should report you to the Palace Office.’

Torn between relief that Triwathon was talking to him again, and unsure whether or not he wanted to be on speaking terms with the Commander quite yet, Parvon answered formally.

‘Commander? Were you following me?’

Triwathon jumped down from the branches of the elm that currently supported him. He looked as if he was trying to smile.

‘There’s still a curfew and, on a more personal level, were you not the one who agreed to be under house arrest?’

‘Indeed; my apologies. I was just looking at our poor forest… but you are right, of course, I will return immediately… there’s no need to follow, Commander. Or do you not trust me?’

‘That’s a low blow.’

‘As is the fact that you found it necessary to follow me.’ Parvon shook his head, not sure where this was leading, wanting to mend things, even though it wasn’t his fault. ‘You have your work detail to oversee; I would not interrupt…’

‘They are quite capable of finishing their work without me watching them.’ Triwathon fell into step beside him. ‘I spoke with Arveldir this morning.’

‘Oh, yes? I have yet to talk with him today, although I did, of course, see him at the…’

‘I’ll be joining him and Erestor this evening, after I’ve joined in with the hall observances and the garrison’s ritual,’ Triwathon went on quickly. ‘He applauded your notion of another place for commemorations. And as he seems to actually want my company…’

‘It is not…’ Parvon broke off. Not that he didn’t want Triwathon’s company, nothing like it. True, he didn’t want his pain, but even so, he would not have let that put him off… ‘I hope you know that it was not for personal reasons I… That is, a place for people who might feel guilty about sharing old grief in the face of so much new pain. Faerveren and I…’

‘He’d be good for you, you know,’ Triwathon hurried on. ‘I wasn’t sure at first, but then, you work together, you have that in common. And he hangs on every word you say, he’s…’

‘No, Commander, no, I don’t know where you have this idea from, but put it from you at once! Faerveren has never given so much as a hint…’

‘No? All this “helping” and “supporting” he’s been doing?’

‘With all the extra responsibility of the last few days, he’s seen he can do more than he realised and he’s keen to push himself, that’s all it is.’

‘After the ceremony this morning. He touched you…’

‘My sleeve, in fact, he tugged my sleeve to get my attention… Triwathon, whatever is up with you?’

‘Nothing, just… you deserve something in your life other than work and he’s friendly, good-looking, obviously in love with you…’

‘In fact, Faerveren is not in love with me, or anyone, and has stated more than once that he simply wishes to be able to do his job without gossip following him around.’ Parvon picked up the pace, heading back towards the New Palace as quickly as he could. ‘I begin to agree with him; if your notions got out, Triwathon, it could be very awkward for him. And for me, but that’s not the point, it does not matter for me, I’ve lived with gossip most of my life, but… and that’s another thing… do you really think I would do that?’

‘Do what?’ Triwathon asked, hurrying to catch up.

‘Do I seem the sort of ellon who would settle? Compromise my values, and another elf’s morals, by settling? Do you really think I would take advantage of someone so much younger than myself, someone I knew I could never really love because my fëa was already smitten with another’s, knowing that without my intervention there would be every chance that elf would find his own fëa-mate in time? Is that your opinion of me, Triwathon?’ 

‘That’s not what I meant at all, and if you think to draw a comparison between my own arrangement with… with…’

‘No, I didn’t mean you and Glorfindel!’ Parvon said sharply. ‘Really, Triwathon! Not everything I say has you at its centre, you know! Simply, Faerveren is young, excellent at his job, and deserves someone who deserves him; he ought to have the chance to wait for his fëa-mate, whether that be ellon or elleth, it is nobody’s business except his and I will not have you, or anyone else, dragging his name around; to do so besmirches the Palace Office, and by association, the king himself.’

‘All right! But don’t worry about being gossiped over yourself, Parvon; you’re not that interesting.’

'I know,' he said quietly. It would have hurt more, had it not been true, had it been no less than Parvon had thought himself over the decades. But that was it, when you worked for someone as interesting as the king himself; you allowed your own personality to recede, kept it tucked out of sight. But he’d always believed Triwathon knew that, had seen through the veneer of the job to the ellon within, at least some of the time. He thought they’d been friends, after all… ‘And so, here are the gates. If you will excuse me, there is much for me to do before the day-meal is set in the hall. Thank you for your escort home. Good day, Commander.’


	27. Formal Observances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon opens the ceremony for the NIght of the Names...

Parvon did his best to put this latest encounter with Triwathon from his mind. The fact that there was so much to do helped, because he didn’t have time to mope and fret… there was the dining hall to visit, to make sure the preparations for the day-meal were underway… then a glance at the information boards, installed at several points throughout the complex; outside the Healers’ rooms, near the dining hall, close to the main doorways… but first, the Palace Office, to thank Arveldir and Erestor for filling in for him, to check if there was anything to demand his immediate attention.

All seemed to have been reasonably quiet.

‘There have been enquiries about this evening,’ Arveldir said. ‘Many concerning the new observances; they are to be held in here, I take it, after the formalities have begun in the dining hall?’

Parvon nodded. ‘There should be information on the boards; it is my next job to see they have been updated…’

‘No doubt there is, they have. But an information board, however cunningly questioned, is unlikely to divulge the reasons behind this change of routine, whether it has anything to do with Commander Triwathon’s loss, or if all is really well in the New Palace…’

‘Oh, I see. I am sorry; it must have been awkward to see the Seneschal of Imladris claimed on behalf of one of us in such fashion, especially for you, Erestor. You must have known him for longer than anyone...?’

From his corner seat where his injured leg was propped on a stool, Erestor stirred and nodded. 

‘I think I can claim that honour, yes. He was, in fact, my oldest friend… but no, I understand. Everyone wanted to call him their Seneschal, or friend, or instructor-at-arms. Or… well. He was so much to so many, but all he really wanted, you know, was to be Ecthelion’s Glorfindel again.’ Erestor’s smile was sad. ‘You will pardon me, I hope, but I should like to go back to our room now.’

‘Of course, and my thanks to you both. I understand there is no caul silk left in the Healers’ stores, Master Erestor, or you would have been made more comfortable…’

Erestor waved this away as Arveldir helped him up.

‘No, there are elflings in pain and elves with far worse injuries than my own. I am recovering, but there is still some soreness… well. If I rest now, I may be able to come to the hall to share the day-meal.’

Parvon held the door and bowed as Arveldir supported Erestor from the room; just for a moment, he felt almost impatient with Triwathon’s grief; there was no doubting his pain, but there was also no doubting the fact that others were also grieving for Glorfindel…

In his own way, so was he. It had been impossible not to like the bold, blond hero of so many battles; Glorfindel had worn his frailties like his scars, as badges of honour, signs he had survived. He had laughed easily and drunk deeply and he had ridden out from the safety of Imladris and across the cold of the mountains, apparently because of a prophetic dream that had said the Silvans were in trouble, and he had died there, in their forest, killing the dragons that had wrought so much devastation…

Briefly Parvon wondered what Ecthelion was like, as a person, how he would react when he heard of Glorfindel’s romantic adventures. It had been repeatedly said that the Ecthelion had freed him from their vows, and so he would forgive him Triwathon and this later lover, of course; who would not forgive their forever-love, no matter how it might sting and smart?

One thing was certain; Ecthelion would never accuse Glorfindel of not being interesting…

Parvon sighed. So much for putting the encounter with Triwathon aside. Even so, there was no point allowing himself to feel aggrieved; it was plain Triwathon would never see him as more than a friend, and at present even their friendship seemed under strain. It was no good; the situation simply couldn’t be allowed to continue… nor would Parvon allow it to do so, but presently there was too much to organise, too many other things demanding his time…

Information boards next, yes. He closed the office and made his rounds, finishing outside Healer Mae’s rooms so he could enter and ask her how her charges were, had there been news of family for the unclaimed elflings yet, and how was she, herself?

‘Everyone is recovering, although now the worst of the pain is over, they are feeling the fear and sorrow more, of course,’ she told him. ‘Word has come that two of the elflings have kin currently at the Old Palace; we will send word to them with the next message… if we know when that might be?’

Parvon shook his head; they were, of course, presently lacking an official messenger.

‘We sent a messenger hawk to the Old Palace and are expecting a reply within the next day or so,’ he told her. ‘But when the bird was sent, of course, the messenger was still alive.’

Maereth laid her hand on his arm.

‘An accident, Parvon; it really was not your fault.’

He shook his head. ‘That aside, Mae, I asked after you, and your assistants; are you bearing up?’

‘Come take tea with me and I’ll tell you,’ she said, smiling.

‘I really shouldn’t…’

But he allowed her to persuade him, and spent twenty minutes drinking lemon balm and lavender tea the fragrance of which filled Maereth’s little office with the memory of summer. Almost unconsciously, Parvon relaxed, let down his guard, didn’t notice Mae’s gentle questions drawing him out about how he himself was feeling, hardly realised he had admitted to being stressed and anxious and really not as happy as he might be.

‘… but it’s no wonder, when we have all had so much to deal with, is it?’ he finished. ‘But while there is work, while I have my duties, there is a certain solace in routine.’ 

‘That’s true,’ the healer said with a nod. ‘And so you see, that is why so many people are curious about the new arrangements for the Night of the Names; the routine has changed, you and Commander Triwathon will not be observing privately together… it is silly that such a small alteration should have everyone questioning, but so it is.’

‘Which is why I made a public announcement, so that it would be clear there was nothing to worry about… but elves will be elves, I suppose. I am grateful for the tea, Maereth; I had better be off, I need to make sure the hall is ready for the day-meal.’

Following the traditions set by the Old Palace, the Yule day-meal would be relatively light with people expected to come and go when suited them. Under normal circumstances, the afternoon would be free, where possible, for people to prepare for the evening when a formal Night of Names meal would be set in the hall, the official observances opened, and people then either staying or going on to private observances with friends or family; the point was that nobody should be alone on the Night of the Names.

The housekeeper and her team had everything under control in the hall, and Parvon paused to acknowledge the hard work that had gone into the preparations, the understated Yule decorations of holly and ivy with a splash of red berries amongst the foliage.

‘For we none of us really feel like celebrating, and yet the hall looks so well it lifts the spirits.’

‘Thank you, Master Parvon. May I ask? About tonight?’

‘Yes, of course. The formal settings on the top table, with places at opposite ends set and the empty seats on either side of the king’s seat. Commander Triwathon has been asked to be lead us, and I was thinking of asking Lord Arveldir to be respondent tonight, if he and Master Erestor are able to attend. Captains Thiriston and Canadion are leading the garrison, but our commander will want to be there too, so he may not stay long.’

‘No, in fact, I meant… you and he are not sharing the observances tonight?’

Parvon carefully didn’t sigh, didn’t scowl, didn’t reply sharply, but it was not easy.

‘That’s right. As things are, Commander Triwathon will visit Master Erestor and Lord Arveldir; their mutual friend was dear to all of them, while I did not know him well. Besides which, there are so many new griefs that I feared Healer Maereth would be overwhelmed with people seeking her out, and so providing another place for people to share…’

He carried on by rote, almost, giving out the official reasons why he and Triwathon would be taking part in the ritual separately for the first time in almost two decades, trying to make it sound natural.  
The housekeeper seemed satisfied, but sniffed.

‘Well, I hope it will be back to normal next year,’ she said, and he smiled and nodded and left, somehow feeling nothing would ever be normal again.

As he was heading back to the Palace Office, trying to keep to the shadows so that nobody would stop him and ask more questions, he spotted a figure he knew but which looked unfamiliar for some reason… of course, it was Faerveren, but Faerveren not in his robes of office, instead wearing leggings and tunic – off duty clothes. As if he heard Parvon think his name, the underscribe turned and smiled a greeting.

‘So far I have referred six people to the notice boards, and two to the office – telling them to wait until after the day-meal for everyone is busy, of course. But apart from that, I am not working, as you told me. It feels very odd!’

Parvon nodded. ‘I find that, too… sometimes I think all my life is work, even when I socialise, the talk usually turns to palace business.’

‘Ah, but that is probably the company you keep. I am invited to join my uncles at table for the day-meal, and they would like you to sit with us too – that’s all right, I hope?’

‘Of course it is, and very kind of you all… I hope you have something nice planned for the afternoon, too?’

‘Yes, again, my uncles…’ Faerveren smiled. ‘It was good of you to give me the time, Master Parvon.’

‘You’re welcome; it’s been a difficult few days. One thing I should mention…’ Parvon hesitated. Fully intending to tell his underscribe that Triwathon might inadvertently make him the subject of some scurrilous talk, he took a moment to rephrase; however much he was smarting after Triwathon’s words, he would not wish to make others think less well of the commander for a minor lapse. ‘The commander mentioned something… there’s a possibility of some gossip going around concerning… well, concerning us, I’m afraid…’

‘…as in, you and I, sir?’ Faerveren shook his head. ‘Ai, that is old news!’

‘Really? But…’

‘Oh, every year or half year, someone looks at how much time we spend working together and they assume there must be more to it than simple shared duties! I am glad you have been unaware of it, for it is so silly. And nobody ever believes it, not for a moment; everyone knows you are fond of the commander, and that you are not the sort of ellon to…’

‘It is good you are not upset by it, Faerveren. People have nothing better to do, I think. Only at the moment, they do have other things to think about and trying not to think about them makes them look around for something else to fill their minds… and, truth to tell, it’s flattering to have my name coupled with so good-looking an ellon as you, but I know you simply want to be left alone to work and if this disturbs your peace in any way…’

‘I wonder what in particular…? perhaps when I touched your arm this morning in public!’ Faerveren shook his head in mock-dismay. ‘Let us hope they never hear about the evening I braided your hair for you, can you imagine…? Oh, and here, I have just passed on an invitation to you to eat with me and my kin… goodness!’ The younger ellon laughed. ‘No, I am not upset, Master Parvon, and if there is anything I don’t like, well, I shall be seen in public with my uncles. Anyone wanting to spread silly rumours would do well to remember how Uncle Thiriston Cut-Face got his name…’

Parvon smiled. ‘That’s the spirit, Faerveren! But if it does become unpleasant… nor do I wish the reputation of the Palace Office to come into disrepute…’

‘Sir, I’m sure it will be well. And as for the respectability of the office, Master, you have Commander Triwathon to breathe down the neck of anyone who would dare suggest otherwise!’

Faerveren smiled, expecting Parvon to laugh and acknowledge he, too, had a champion, but it was hard to do, to pretend, when it had been Triwathon himself started this line of thought.

‘Yes, our good commander is always aware of such things!’ he found himself able to say. ‘Well, Faerveren, enjoy your uncles’ company.’

‘Oh, I shall!’ he said. ‘Uncle Canadion always makes me laugh with the stories about the gossip he used to cause… and, you see? He was not harmed by it!’

*

Of course Parvon had to be at the day-meal, and, of course, so did Commander Triwathon. But although there was nothing to say that both of them had to be there at the same time, Parvon lingered over his food for just a few moments too long, so that the commander came in just as Parvon was finishing his meal. Faerveren good-naturedly moved up and invited him to join the party, and so it was impossible for him to refuse, even though Parvon could detect waves of anxious awkwardness emanating from the commander. Nor was it possible for Parvon to leave either, for Captain Thiriston, with fine disregard for his polite refusal of more wine, had splashed full his goblet and to leave it would have been wasteful, and ill-mannered. Besides, he did not want Triwathon to think he was running away…

It was Triwathon who moved first, however, before even the servers had come to him.

‘If you don’t mind, Faerveren, I’ll go and sit with Lord Arveldir and Master Erestor, I think; I need to talk with them about this evening…’

‘Of course, Commander. You’re First Speaker tonight, aren’t you? I understand Lord Arveldir will be First Responder, if his husband is well enough for the hall…’ Faerveren glanced across at Parvon. ‘Otherwise, it will be you again, won’t it, sir?’

‘I hope Erestor is feeling much improved,’ Triwathon murmured as he rose from his seat. 

Faerveren nodded and smiled, and Parvon, wincing from yet another little stab, wondered if he was perhaps being too sensitive, reading into Triwathon’s remark a veiled hint that he didn’t want to open proceedings with Parvon as participant. Naturally, he agreed with the thought for Erestor’s sake and… well, to not have to begin the most important ritual of the Silvan ceremonial year with a hostile associate would actually be quite a relief.

*

A little before the time appointed for the commencement of the observances, Faerveren presented himself in the Palace Office dressed in fresh formal robes and looking happy and relaxed.

‘For there is nothing like a loving family, after all, is there, sir?’

‘Indeed, Faerveren. I am grateful to have been invited to share your day-meal. My own kin are no longer here, of course, but I remember fondly the days when we were able to meet and share a table together.’

‘Of course, sir, your parents sailed, did they not? Will you join them one day, do you think, sir?’

‘It’s possible,’ Parvon admitted, for the almost-shocking thought that had come to him – to sail and be done with all this – came back into his mind. ‘But not tonight, of course. I have not had word yet whether Arveldir will be attending… I should just pay a quick call…’

‘In fact, sir, as it was on my way, I took the liberty of knocking and asking how Master Erestor was feeling. Lord Arveldir’s apologies, but he and Erestor will stay in their rooms and just celebrate privately tonight.’

‘Of course; it’s no more than I expected, Erestor was at the gates this morning and then helped in the office…’

‘Besides being at the day-meal. How do you suppose it is, for Noldo, sir, who follow other traditions? Is the day of Yule more, or less, important, do you think?’

A discussion of the habits of other kinds of elves, and whether or not those, too, might be altered further by proximity to humans, filled the time between leaving the office and arriving at the hall, giving Parvon little chance for anxiety. He had time to pause, straighten his robes, and wonder whether Triwathon had heard the news of Arveldir’s absence before he entered, was seen by the commander, and realised from the swift look on Triwathon’s face, that he had not expected Parvon to take the place at the opposite end of the table. He recovered, gave a slight inclination of the head which Parvon matched, and the two took their seats while the hall filled around them.

While he waited, Parvon found himself wondering whom Triwathon would bring forth as First Name. It had become tradition, in the Old Palace, to begin with the name of the king’s former consort, the mother of the princes, and were the king present tonight, no doubt Triwathon would follow the familiar formula. But the king was not present, and there was so much death over the New Palace… no, there was little doubt who Triwathon would name, it would be Glorfindel, of course, bound to be, even though to bring forth the name of a non-Silvan might be considered radical; he just hoped the commander could say the name without wavering…

The seats filled, the food served except for the empty settings on either side of the king’s place, the goblets filled with good, rich wine… Parvon and Triwathon rose to their feet as if by some signal, lifted their drinking vessels. Parvon felt his attention drifting so that he was only aware of the latter part of Triwathon’s speech…

‘…this evening, this year, things are not as they usually are, and so, I ask, Chief Advisor to the King, do you remember…?’  


_...Glorfindel. Yes, I remember him, he…_

‘…Rhoscthel, Landaer…’

Parvon gave himself a little shake; the expected name had not come. Instead, Triwathon was reciting the names of everyone who had died, every Silvan they were mourning, every lost individual soul…

Abruptly, Triwathon ran out of names, shook his head.

‘And one more person who died that night. Do you remember Glorfindel?’

…there it was, tacked on to the end of the list, and rightly, too, for he had died last… Parvon lifted his wine in salute.

‘Yes, Garrison Commander Triwathon, I remember Rhoscthel, whose husband had died but who still sand to her children… and Landaer, an Elder of the village who loved living in the trees… I remember…’ 

He went on, listing them in turn, adding what they had meant to him, to the community, to the kingdom. Finally, he, too, paused.

‘And, yes, Commander, I remember Glorfindel of Gondolin, whom we honour as one of our own. He died for us, for our elflings, for our kin and our friends, and we will always remember him.’

Raising his goblet, he saluted the empty places again, and drank, and Triwthon called out to the hall:

‘Who else remembers these, our honoured dead?’ and gradually, from here and there, calling over each other, the people joined in with their memories of this one and that.

But nobody, other than Parvon, quite had the courage to remember Glorfindel, it seemed, until Elrohir got to his feet, his seat stuttering and scraping back over the stone of the floor.

‘I remember Fin, Glorfindel, he… he taught me to ride, to fight, not to be afraid of who I am… he taught me all the things my own father couldn’t, or wouldn’t, or was too busy to share, and… it feels like losing my father again. Only worse, because Ada sailed and Glorfindel… I… Oh, Fin.’

‘I remember Glorfindel’ a voice from the side tables; Erthor, one of the visiting warriors. ‘We came back from escort duty together, singing ‘Heroes Coming Home’ in the wet and cold. Ai, he is home now, at last!’

‘I remember that, I remember ‘Heroes’ and rain and Glorfindel singing… he could sing well when he wanted, but… he chose not to, that night. It made us laugh…’ Calithilon laughed and drank. ‘Yes, I remember Glorfindel…’

The memories began to run around the hall, loosening the mood, and Parvon saw Triwathon swallow, his eyes shine suddenly. He turned away his head; the raw pain was too much to look at.

‘Sir?’ Faerveren had come to stand behind his chair. ‘If you wish, I will stay and see the hall organised; the commander can then go on to the garrison, and you to the Palace Office; the inner room is arrayed for private commemorations, the outer for more general observances.’

‘Faerveren…’ Parvon rose quietly. ‘Thank you, that makes all easy for us both. I will see you later, then, once they are settled.’


	28. Observances in the Palace Office

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon and Faerveren oversee the rituals...

The good thing about setting up a new station for the observances, Parvon mused as he looked around the altered inner office, was that, within certain limits, he could set his own rules. And those who came to participate would have to abide by them, for, being new, they would not be able to say this particular form of observance was wrong.

So instead of requesting the corridor servants to provide hot food, he asked instead for lembas, dried fruit, and blackcurrant cordial to be brought in and left on a side table. Since it was the sharing of food – the breaking of bread – that mattered, then why should it not be waybread?

The inner room had its day-to-day functions masked by the simple process of putting away all the scrolls and papers, moving the desk aside and setting up a table with four set places in the middle, a candle in the midst of the crockery providing light while the rest of the room was dark.

The outer room also had a table and chairs, places laid. It was Parvon’s intention to sit here with Faerveren until or unless another came in, seeking to share. 

It would be a while yet, of course… in the hall, people would be deciding whether to stay there and remember publicly their dead, or to find someone to share with privately, and that took time and a certain degree of encouragement on the part of those on duty… when Faerveren had talked of seeing the hall ‘organised’, he meant something like that, pairing off those who were alone, advising those who didn’t want a public observance… 

So he was surprised to when a gentle knock at the open doorway was followed by a tentative voice asking if this was the right place…?

‘Please come in,’ he said. ‘You are Oldor, I think? Come, be welcome. Tell me, what sort of remembrance will this be for you, private or…?’

Oldor, a young ellon who to Parvon’s knowledge had family in the area, nodded and moistened his lips, anxious.

‘Very… very private. And… personal. I hope it’s all right, only I didn’t want to bring this to Healer Mae and I just can’t…’

‘I see. Come through, then, Oldor, and sit down.’ He pulled the door to, gesturing to the table and setting lembas and a flask of cordial on the table. ‘May these observances bring us only joy.’

Oldor nodded and sat down, his movements jerky, awkward.

‘I do not know how… the family gathering is different, and…’

Parvon nodded, pouring the rich, dark blackcurrant liquid into two glasses, breaking a wafer of lembas and sharing it between his and Oldor’s plates.

‘There is one person, then, whose memory weighs on you tonight?’

The young ellon nodded. ‘I thought you would understand, you see, and Healer Mae… she knows my mother, and…’

‘Shall I begin, perhaps? I remember an ellon called Maedon. He was…’ Parvon paused to sip his drink. ‘He was wild, you might say. He did not follow convention, in fact he flouted the rules wherever he met them. In itself, this would not have been so bad, but he led other young elves astray… but, still, he was loved, and when he died, he was missed. The one who felt most strongly for him did adjust, did go on to find someone else, for he and Maedon had not been fëa-mates… but I think, for a time, it was hard for him. So, I remember Maedon, who was, amongst other things, a fine shot, and a poacher. But still, people cared about him.’

‘I remember… Hethurin. He was… Oak Village. I… in his flet, smoke, they think killed him not burning and… at least it wasn’t dragons.’

‘I remember Hethurin,’ Parvon said. ‘He was…’ 

He broke off. ‘Going to be married’, he’d been about to say, but as Hethurin’s supposed bride was an elleth from the Old Palace, and as Oldor seemed to be in more sorrow than just friendship might claim, he changed his words hastily. 

‘…was late moving out to the village, wasn’t he? Only came this summer, oh, that is sad!’

Oldor nodded, sniffing.

‘Came to be closer to… to me. He said we might… next year, go away somewhere, if we couldn’t be together here… I… I think he was my fëa-mate, because I just want to rip out my heart so it will stop HURTING me, but… how can I know?’

‘I am sorry for your pain, for your loss. Obviously there was great affection between you. How does one know…? Sometimes, one looks upon an elleth or an ellon and it is as if the whole of Lord Eru’s creation changes around one. At other times, there is just a certainty that this one is the other half of one’s soul. Then there are those who are aware of the thoughts and fears of their loved one, sensitive to when they may be in danger or distress.’

‘That was… I knew something was wrong. He… and I think, he could have got away, but he chose not to. That it was easier for him to die than to face his family and… there was an elleth, you see.’

‘I see. Then that is doubly sad, when one is afraid of what one’s family will say or do or think.’

‘Was it like that for you, Master Parvon?’ Oldor asked, his tone shy. But Parvon had no wish to be drawn and potentially quoted around the New Palace once this young one’s distress had worn off a little.

‘I am not the subject of the discussion, Oldor. The subject never came up in my family.’

‘You were fortunate, then!’ the young elf said. ‘Hethurin left the family home to get away from them all telling him what to do… he told them he wanted to experience a traditional way of life for a while, before he settled down, but really, it was so we could be together. I didn’t know if he meant forever, or just until they came after him and brought him home… I didn’t care, really, as long as I was where he was.’

‘Tell me more of Hethurin. He had never been in the guard or the hunters, I think…?’

‘That’s so. He could shoot well, though, he made sure he practised. And I practised too, so that was nice, to do it together. Oh, I miss him, and I do not know how…’

‘You will adapt.’ Parvon spoke calmly and softly. ‘After the Battle Under The Trees, after the Battle of the Five Armies, there were many left as you are, their sweethearts dead, unsure of whether or not there had been a forever waiting for them. Some found, yes, that had been their fëa-mate. And of those, many accepted a lesser love with another who had also lost someone. There is that perfect match for all of us, but they say there are also others almost as close… others were so grief-stricken that they turned their faces away from their kin and towards the Halls of Mandos, to be reunited there. But I have always felt there are too many dead elves already, without adding to the number. After all, we are not forbidden to Sail, just because we choose not to.’

‘I thought of that, of Sailing. But… he would still be dead when I got there, wouldn’t he? But then, he is worth waiting for, I… yes, I could do that for him. I might. But… you know what will happen, don’t you? The elleth, she will get all the sympathy and the kindness and she didn’t like him that much – we were fëa-mates, she couldn’t have done…’

If nothing more, Parvon found himself musing over Oldor’s rambling grief, at least the young one seemed to have decided how things had stood between himself and Hethurin…

‘…but that’s how it will be. At least I can come to you and tell you, Master Parvon… oh, but he was wonderful, so much fun…’

Parvon listened and nodded and asked careful questions until after an hour or so the penneth was all cried out and his tears dried, his heart still hurting but his mood determined and when he rose from his place, and Parvon got to his feet likewise, he found himself soundly hugged and then released.

‘Thank you, Master Parvon, I feel so much better now! I… if you don’t mind, I’ll tell my kin I’m late because I was with a friend, but I think I can join them for the rest of the night now. And… perhaps I will Sail… but that choice is for another day. I am very grateful. May the rest of your observances bring you only joy.’

The outer office was empty, but there were signs that the table had recently been occupied and within moments of seeing Oldor out, Parvon found himself greeting Faerveren.

‘Was all well, sir? I have had three in here, all remembering friends who were not lovers, and they have gone away happy… in fact, they arrived separately but left together with the intention of drinking their various friends’ health… you had Oldor; I slipped out to give him privacy leaving. How has he taken the loss of his lover, it was never going to be easy for him?’

‘You knew his history?’

‘Of course. It was no secret, at the Old Palace, that some families were not adapting to the modern acceptance of same-gender relationships… his friend was supposed to take vows with a daughter of his mother’s friend… well, it will not happen now. Did he take it well?’

‘Badly at first, in fact, but he seems better for talking at me.’ Parvon gave a rueful smile. ‘Had I known how hard this would be…’

‘But he feels better, you see, and the ellyn I saw, they are more cheerful now too. We have done a good job here tonight. Of course, it is not over yet.’

But nobody came and so after another hour Parvon went into the inner room, gesturing Faerveren to accompany him. He took a seat at the table, in the place Oldor had used, and poured cordial into fresh glasses, set fresh fragments of lembas.

‘May these observances bring us only joy, Master Parvon,’ Faerveren said. ‘For myself, I remember Rhoscthel, and an ellon called Úrdir. He it was who looked at me, and I looked back, and knew I was not like my adar but more like my Daeradar Merenor. He was in the guard, and I used to go and watch Uncle Canadion practice, so I could see Úrdir, too. But nothing came of it, perhaps because it was known whose nephew and honour-nephew I was, perhaps because I was not bold enough to do more than look, or because he was content just to let me admire him… it was nice, though, to watch him… I remember your brother Fonor, also, although I was too busy looking at Úrdir to really see him.’

‘I remember Úrdir. And, of course, Fonor… I am grateful you spoke his name first, for he is the one I really wish to remember… they died in the same battle, of course, on the same field… poor Fonor! I do miss him…’

‘There is a strong resemblance, except that he was so very tall, of course…!’

‘You flatter me…’ Parvon smiled. ‘He was tall, stupidly tall… they say if you put us together and averaged us out, we would both have been the right height…but his eyes were brighter, his hair closer to blond than mine… he laughed more, and danced, and sang, and was such a light and carefree soul! Growing up, he seemed to be everything I wished I were, but was not. Although I was a better shot.’

‘Really, sir? No, I doubt you not – I’ve seen you shoot, you are very skilled…’

‘I could beat Nestoril, he never could. Although he claimed he was being gallant, but I think she just outshot him…’

‘My uncle sometimes used to struggle to beat Healer Ness; I think maybe Captain Fonor was just outmatched. But his skill with the sword was very fine.’

‘Well. I keep thinking of what you said earlier – there’s nothing like a loving family. And we were. That is, not all over each other all the time, but my parents were always warm and supportive… quite old-fashioned, without being very old fashioned, if you know what I mean. So I don’t know if they knew how it was with me, or if they just believed me when I said I wanted to devote myself to the King’s Office and that to marry would be unfair to any potential spouse. And they never questioned it… I think… maybe they knew, but couldn’t quite face what that might mean… Assuming Fonor didn’t have any dark secrets I didn’t know about, he may well be out of Mandos now, in which case, why am I doing this? He won’t be able to hear me if he’s re-embodied…’

‘I always thought we did this for ourselves,’ Faerveren said softly, refilling Parvon’s glass. ‘Because we miss them, and we need to express that loving longing. And to do so like this, saying their names… if they are still with the Lord of the Dark Halls, then it comforts them, too. But if they are not, then they are probably missing us just as much. I wonder if, in Valinor, on the Night of the Names, do they gather and think of us, left behind here?’ The younger elf smiled. ‘Sometimes I have too many thoughts, my naneth says.’

‘I do not think a person in the employ of the King’s Offices can have too many thoughts, Faerveren. And thank you; yes, it is not really why we do this tonight, but why we do not speak their names the rest of the year… but I do miss him. While he was here, I could see his love of life and feel that a part of me was a joyous, dancing, laughing ellon too. I…’

He broke off abruptly as a wave of grief took the breath from his lungs.

‘Sir? Master Parvon?’

‘Oh, I…’ Not him, not his grief, he was not missing Fonor that much. But it was anguish and agony and it beat hurt, hurt, hurt with his heart and he had to do something to break free of this misery even if it meant… ‘Faerveren, can you stay here?’ I have to go and…’

‘I am sure you are not well, sir… let me take you to Healer Mae…’

‘No, I am fine, I simply…’ He broke off and shook his head. ‘I have to go. May the rest of the night bring you only good memories, Faerveren. Thank you for listening. I must…’

He hurried from the room, not consciously aware that Faerveren was following discreetly, just tracking the anguish… no, being pulled towards it inexorably. He passed a servant’s trolley laid for the night, and grabbed a bottle of wine and a loaf from it as he went, hurrying towards the furthest part of the New Palace. 

As he went, he felt the despair and sorrow fade… no, not fade, it was as if it became masked, numbed by a chill, cold, creeping calm…one last corner and he ended up outside the room where Glorfindel’s body had lain in state terrified about what he would find within.


	29. 'Help is Here...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faerveren finds out where Master Parvon has gone...

Faerveren didn’t know what to do; it was startling, to watch Master Parvon’s gentle eyes change, take on a dark wince of pain. A restrained enquiry and an offer to escort him to Healer Maereth, was met with a kind refusal; Parvon wanted him to stay and take care of the office…

And normally, he would have followed instructions; it was in his nature to do as he was bid, but he could not let Master Parvon go unescorted through the corridors, as anxious and distressed as he suddenly seemed. Yet an offer of his company would, no doubt, be declined with as much courtesy as had his offer of assistance.

Therefore he waited for a moment before setting off after his master, keeping close to the shadows as he had observed others of the Kings and Palace Offices do, and by the time Parvon reached the chamber where the body of Glorfindel had lain in state, Faerveren had still escaped notice.

But what could this be about? Surely Master Parvon was not visiting an empty room to see where Glorfindel had rested…?

Ah. No, but perhaps someone else had.

Parvon’s hand extended towards the door and on impulse Faerveren stepped forward.

‘Master Parvon?’

‘Faerveren? Is it important? I have to…’

‘No, sir, I just wish to help.’

Parvon opened the door and looked in. What he saw seemed to distress him further. ‘Unless you know how to stop someone fading, which is what I fear will happen if I don’t intervene…’

‘Keep them warm and remind them they matter,’ Faerveren said promptly. ‘I shan’t intrude, sir; I’ll make sure there’s a fire in your rooms and then return to the Palace Office.’

‘Thank you, Faerveren. I know I can trust your discretion.’

‘Always, sir.’ 

Faerveren tipped his head in a formal bow and turned to be about his business. Of course his worry had not been lessened – would Master Parvon be safe, if there was someone within so close to despair? If that one had decided to fade and follow Lord Glorfindel, and if that one happened to be a noted warrior, then any intervention might have risk… but if, as seemed logical, the occupant of the room was Commander Triwathon, then no wonder Master Parvon didn’t want anyone helping… and no wonder he felt able to deal with the matter alone.

He sighed. It was all too much for a very junior underscribe, even one who had been thrust forward in a time of crisis. But visiting Master Parvon’s quarters and adding another faggot or two to the embers, stirring them to life, that was within his capabilities. So was asking the corridor servant to please have some mulled wine prepared for Master Parvon and his friend. 

The servant bowed his head.

‘If I don’t presume, Master Faerveren, does this mean our two friends are sharing observances together after all?’

It seemed a good excuse, so Faerveren nodded.

‘Yes. Yes, we are through with our office observances early, and as Commander Triwathon decided to leave his other friends to celebrate privately themselves, it is… back to normal. If I am wanted, I shall be in the Palace Office.’

‘Very good, Master Faerveren. Nice to see it all back to normal.’

*

Normal…! As if matters could ever be normal again after all this death and destruction! In peacetime, too… and so many misplaced persons, so many to rehome and so much to re-establish…

He reached the office and had almost shut himself in when he remembered he would still have to preside if anyone came to share their memories; it had been interesting, earlier, but just now he felt too tired to be of use to anyone… for a moment he wondered if he ought to try to overcome his distaste for strong spirits, but common sense prevailed and he allowed himself a small cup of wine, hoping all was well with Commander Triwathon, and that Master Parvon would send word. Nothing else to do now but stir the fire and settle down to wait.

He rested his head on his hand and watched the small dance of the flames until he fell into a half-reverie, his mind drifting back over the day… time spent with his uncles, family was so important… it was a pity Master Parvon didn’t have any kin, he never showed he felt isolated or alone, but there had been hints that evening, just before… 

The wine cup being eased from his fingers brought him back to wakefulness. Mindful of his duty, he had hardly sat up before he was gasping out, ‘…and how may the Palace Office serve?’

‘It’s all right, penneth, it’s just me,’ a known and loved voice said, and Faerveren blinked clear his eyes.

‘Daerada!’ He surged to his feet and his grandfather gathered him in for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you, Faerveren. Are you well?’

‘Oh, Daerada, it has been awful! So much loss and destruction, and… yes, I am fine, I was safe in the palace all the time, and Uncle Canadion is fine, too,’ he added dutifully, knowing how close was the bond between Daerada Merenor and his youngest son. ‘And Uncle Thiriston. They helped bring home injured elflings, and… but you know what happened?’

‘Let’s have a sit down and if you’re not drinking that…? Thank you, penneth. I’m glad you’re safe, and your uncles, thank you for mentioning them… the message said dragons, and listed some deaths… it is very sad. I remember Rhoscthel, and Landaer, of course. And an ellon called Hethurin, he came to me for advice and, poor chap, I told him to follow his heart... and it seems he followed it all the way out here…’

‘Oh, Daerada, and Lord Glorfindel of Imladris… he was so brave, they said, he killed most of the dragons for us, but he died and Commander Triwathon was…’ Faerveren stopped himself. Daerada was so easy to talk to, sometimes too easy. ‘But poor Master Parvon, a dreadful thing happened, and, indeed, it was not his fault. But it happened after the hawk had been sent, and so the king does not know, so he is worried in case…’

‘Now, why don’t you slow down a bit, eh?’ Merenor smiled at his grandson. ‘We’ve plenty of time before your Honour-Daerada Hanben joins us. As soon as the news was known, the king asked for volunteers, so we offered… Hanben’s healer training comes in useful sometimes… and we brought some spider cauls with us for the healers, and I just sort of tagged along… and as soon as the Old Palace has recovered from its Night of the Names, our king is coming to see how things are for himself. So, help’s on its way.’

‘No, help is here, Daerada! I am so glad to see you!’

‘Well, maybe I can help out in the offices, give you and Master Parvon a bit of a rest, eh? What were you saying about him?’

‘Oh, it was dreadful! Of course, he wanted me to put him in the cells, but we decided house arrest was enough…’

‘Whatever happened? He’s such nice, kind, gentle ellon.’

‘Well, he… the messenger is dead. As I say, it was after the hawk left… and it was an accident, Lord Námo told Lord Arveldir…’

‘Arveldir’s here?’

‘And his husband. But…’ 

‘That very handsome Noldo? Oh, lovely… so, go on, penneth?’

‘I am trying to… Commander Triwathon was sitting with Lord Glorfindel’s remains, and then he was attacked by the messenger…’

‘Dear me! Was he all right?’

‘Well, yes, because Master Parvon happened by, and he saw what was happening, and he pulled the messenger away and hit him… and he slipped and broke his neck as he fell. So we are anxious lest the king find him – Master Parvon – to blame, but he really wasn’t.’

‘Now I see. And your Master Parvon is the sort to blame himself… Poor chap! But if Lord Arveldir has the authority of such a witness as Lord Námo, I am sure our king will accept that.’ 

Merenor finished Faerveren’s cup of wine. ‘Oh, that was what I needed! I don’t suppose you’ve anything to eat, have you?’

‘Yes, of course, Daerada… I will just send out to the corridor servant. And, Daerada… it is wonderful to see you, did I say? Everything will be all right now you and Daerada Hanben are here.’


	30. 'Trying Not to...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon discovers what's happening in the room where Glorfindel had lain in state...

His heart pounding and his mouth dry, Parvon turned away from Faerveren, took a breath, and pushed into the room. Empty now of the table where Glorfindel had lain in state, empty of everything except a huddled form against the wall, it felt huge, dark and vast, the only light a dim glow from the corridor lamps. 

Even so he knew who it was huddling there, and he threw himself across the room to kneel beside the figure and touch the exposed skin of one hand. It was far too cold, like to so many cold hands of dead elves that he’d touched in recent days…

‘Triwathon? Triwathon, no…’ He pulled at the commander, making him unfurl, trying to chafe his wrists. ‘You can’t fade! Don’t you dare fade! It won’t help you to be there, he’ll be there, yes, but he won’t be alone, it will just make you more unhappy… Triwathon, you can’t turn away from us! There are too many who need you!’

_…who love you…_

Triwathon groaned and uncoiled, resting his head back against the wall and shivering. His face was pale and streaked with tears and his shoulders shook.

‘…not trying to fade, idiot,’ he said between gusting sobs. ‘Trying not to…’

‘Well, this does not seem to me to be the best way to go about it. Come, get up. You’re freezing; we have to get you warmed up, this isn’t right…’

‘…making me, taunting me, Girithon, he’s in my head, whispering…’

‘No, he’s not. The messenger – I will not honour him with his name – he is dead. He is not here. He is with Lord Námo. He cannot be in your mind, he cannot hurt you, Triwathon – you need to hear me.’

‘I… oh, Parvon, he’s dead, Glorfindel’s dead, and I don’t know what to do about it!’

Parvon pulled the commander to his feet and put an arm around him, attempting to lead him towards the door, but instead Triwathon clung to him, trying to stop sobbing, trying to come back. 

‘There isn’t anything you can do about it, Triwathon. It’s awful, dreadful, and he is such a huge loss to Middle Earth… all we can do is to keep going without him.’

‘That’s easy for you to say!’

‘I remember Glorfindel,’ Parvon said, leading the way from the room. ‘He saved us. He knew we were in trouble, and he came to help. Perhaps I was not in love with him, but I did honour him and admire his courage. And he was very handsome, in a golden sort of way.’

Triwathon gave a sniff that might have been a laugh. The shaking had receded, the sobs finally subsided, leaving him trembling more than anything, shivering still.

‘Your rooms or mine? Yours are nearer, mine will certainly have a fire burning…’

‘Don’t want… company, the others to see me…’

Parvon was not surprised.

‘My rooms, then. Come, hold your courage, my friend. Not long, and you can tell me everything.’

*

Parvon was grateful for the quiet of the corridors, for the tray of food and jug of mulled wine on the stand outside his rooms, the fire burning in the grate. He helped Triwathon inside, sat him by the fire and handed him a glass of hot wine, trying not to peer too closely into his face; he had more than a sense of what his friend was feeling and had no wish to make matters worse by seeming over-anxious. But what had he been doing there, alone? Why had he left Arveldir and Erestor, could they not see, could they not at least have guessed that something like this would happen? 

‘Here. This will warm you. Tell me, Triwathon?’

Triwathon wrapped his hands around the goblet and stared into its depths.

‘He is dead, my friend Glorfindel is dead,’ he said. ‘What more is there to tell?’

Parvon inhaled slowly, gathering himself. At least Triwathon didn’t look so horribly grey now, at least he was almost stopped shaking.

‘I am sorry he is dead. Sorry for you, and sorry for us all. He has been so entwined with history that it is as if more than lives were lost when he died. But, Triw – at least you were there. You were with him, you held him and brought him comfort in his last moments. Yours was the last elven face he saw before he left us. You were the last to hold him.’

‘He smiled at me, he did, he was glad it was me…’ Triwathon gave a huge sniff and gulped at his hot wine. ‘And I know – what you said, if I were to fade – I didn’t want to, really, it wasn’t me… then I would only have to see him with Ecthelion, and… no, that would not be good…’

‘This is why we are not meant to be alone on the Night of the Names. Had you been long there?’

‘I do not know. I… it… Do not think badly of Arveldir and Erestor, they were welcoming. And it started well. We went through those lost to the dragons first, and then those from earlier days at last Glorfindel was remembered… Arveldir brought his name to the table. Then Erestor said he remembered Glorfindel and spoke of how long he’d known him and it made me feel ashamed, I think, about how… how personal it felt to me. And then… then Erestor, he… began to weep and of course Arveldir went to him and I felt… of course they didn’t want me there, not really, so I left and… I didn’t know where else to go. But he wasn’t there, only the messenger, whispering it was my fault, my fault he was dead because I let you stop him, and my fault you were going to be called a murder and kinslayer, and my fault Glorfindel died because… and it felt so true, and all the time his voice saying I didn’t deserve to live, not after everything I’ve done, and nobody would miss me, and... he said… he said even you wouldn’t want me and… and I was so tired, and so sad, and after today… I just couldn’t not listen…’ He sought refuge in his wine once more. ‘Thank you, Parvon. I… haven’t treated you well lately and you still came and saved me.’

‘We can talk about that later,’ Parvon said. ‘You do know it’s not your fault, I hope? None of it. I would have hit the messenger anyway, I think, given the opportunity. He’d been pestering other elves and it was past time someone said something to him about that… and then to find he’d delayed on the road… no, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his.’

‘It wasn’t your fault he died, though. You do see that, Parvon?’

Parvon allowed himself the luxury of a sigh.

‘Yes, I know it… that is, I understand what everyone tells me about the how and the why and the misfortune, and had it been anyone else I would be saying exactly the same, but… it’s one thing to know it and another to feel it in my fëa…’ 

Silence fell. Then, with another exhalation, Parvon got himself a glass of wine and lifted it in salute.

‘I remember your Glorfindel,’ he said. ‘It is a strange thing, because for all I had tried, in my younger days, to put you out of my mind, I had not entirely succeeded, I think. Seeing you return in such sorrow from the Battle of the Three Dragons moved me. And Glorfindel… the way he looked at you made me look again. I saw how you had grown and were no longer… well, it will sound silly… dangerous… I was in the dining hall, and I heard the skitter of a dropped braid clasp. Automatically I picked it up to offer… and saw it was yours, then felt the touch of your fingers… and all the years peeled back to show me my heart and fëa were unchanged. It was still you, Triwathon, and it would always be you.’

Triwathon shook his head but Parvon lifted a hand.

‘Let me continue. I was only going to add that I have lived with that knowledge in all the years since, and I hope it has not been awkward for you. There have been moments when it’s been useful – my fëa told me you were in danger when the messenger attacked you, and tonight, also, I knew you needed help. And so I was there.’

‘Thank you. That is, I will be grateful in a day, or two. But just at the moment I do not know how I feel…’

‘No, I can understand that.’

‘But I do know I am sorry, Parvon. Sorry I suggested there was anything between you and Faerveren. I was… not jealous, but envious, if you understand? That there was so obvious a partner waiting for you if you just looked up… and you didn’t seem to want to see… and I knew that I would never find anyone who was so like me that it seemed right.’

‘Faerveren and I are alike in some ways,’ Parvon said, tipping his head in acknowledgement. ‘We neither of us wish to be with any except our fëa-mates. He has yet to find his; I know mine is out of reach…’

‘It is not… we have so little in common, I am a warrior, you are an advisor… and I think… I think I was so dazzled by Glorfindel that I cannot love again. So if you mean me, Parvon, yes, I am out of reach. But it does not mean I do not like you, or value you, or… or feel terrible about how I have spoken to you at times. I… did not say anything elsewhere, there will be no gossip about you and Faerveren…’

Parvon smiled.

‘Did not you know? Apparently, every half year or so, someone notes how much time Faerveren and I spend in each other’s company and they wonder aloud if it is all just work…’

‘Ai, my apologies! I was unaware…’

‘As was I. Faerveren mentioned it.’

Triwathon sat up a little.

‘You didn’t tell him what I said?’

‘Of course not. I said… you had brought something to my attention… and that he and I may become gossip-fodder. He laughed and said it was an old tale.’ And, taking a chance on Triwathon’s mood, he went on in a lighter tone. ‘So obviously some people think I am interesting…’

Triwathon groaned and shook his head.

‘I am more sorry than you can know for saying that! I really, really did not mean it, my friend!’

Parvon smiled.

‘I know it. You were… it was a difficult time. You had lost your dearest friend just when he had found you again.’

‘But… for all my grief was new, and raw… you have lost people too. I remember Fonor.’

‘Fonor.’ Parvon lifted his glass. ‘I miss him so much, he was the best of brothers.’

‘I used to wish, sometimes, that he was my brother, you know,’ Triwathon said, his voice almost shy, suddenly. ‘How he would laugh, and sing, and be so happy in life… he was the only elf I know who could dance at breakfast time in the hall and make people want to join in rather than scold him. I wished I could be more like him…’

‘It is a strange thing, Triwathon, but earlier this night I was thinking the same thing; he found it so easy to laugh and sing…’

‘For me, it was more, he knew when to stop, when so far was far enough. Me, I always got swept up and went too far. I got silly and giddy and loud. But Fonor never did.’

‘Easily led, that was you. Too trusting, too eager to please.’

‘Perhaps. I may have been afraid if I didn’t go along with what people wanted, they would not like me. I know better now, of course, but… it was a long, hard lesson. So.’ He lifted his goblet. ‘To Fonor, whom we miss as a brother and a friend.’

They continued through the night, Parvon allowing Triwathon time to remember Glorfindel in as much depth as he needed. Mostly the commander focussed on the early days of their knowing each other, and the last, bitter meeting. Eventually, when noises outside in the corridors suggested the night was drawing to a close and the servants up and about their business, when they were both talked out and heavy-eyed, Triwathon shook his head and sighed.

‘What a lot of nonsense I’ve been talking,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your patience, Parvon. I wonder if Glorfindel heard any of that.’

‘I have no way of knowing,’ Parvon said. ‘He is not, after all, Silvan. But I hope at least he knows he’s been remembered. Now, what will you do? Go back to your rooms for the rest of the night, or bed down on the sofa again? It’s the Night of the Names, many people will be leaving rooms not theirs this morning with nothing inappropriate having happened…’

‘That’s true. Thank you, Parvon. That would be kind. I’m glad we’re friends again; I couldn’t bear it if I lost you, too.’

Parvon felt his throat constrict.

‘When you need a friend, Triwathon, I will always be ready to support you.’

‘Whether I deserve it or not?’

‘Irrespective.’ _I love you._ ‘Sometimes, I may not like the things you do or say very much, but I will always do my best to help.’


	31. Unprocessed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Glorfindel finds himself in the Halls of Mandos...

Glorfindel sighed and stirred, blinking to clear back his inner eyelids. It felt different, somehow… no matter…

Automatically he felt beside him to see if Melpomaen had stayed the night…or had he stayed in Mel’s bed…?

Oh. Suddenly it all came back, why his eyelids felt different, why he felt strange… and he realised he wasn’t going to be finding sweet, kind Mel in his bed ever again.

A sigh escaped him.

‘Come now, Glorfindel, no regrets, I hope?’

‘Lord Námo… I… didn’t know where I was for a moment. No, no regrets… oh. Well, pretty sure I will have when I see Thel again… where is he? When can I…?’

‘Hush, little soul!’ Lord Námo’s voice was gently amused, patient. ‘Soon enough. Your fëa is still raw and unprocessed, not yet entirely severed from your physical existance; you must to pass through your healing sleep, first. But…’ Lord Námo sighed. ‘Tonight is the Night of the Names and, of course, all these Silvans… but unprocessed fëar are too close to the living world to pass into the main chambers of the Halls… so they watch from here.’

‘Watch…?’

‘Well, listen, rather. Glorfindel, are you really awake? I was trying to explain; it is the Night of the Names, surely you remember, it is special for Silvans?’

‘Oh… oh, yes, of course! Been to a few… might be interesting to see it from the other side, but…’

‘You were honoured. Full Silvan rites, remember?’

‘I… yes, I do. They stuffed me into a tree, didn’t they? Nice tree, but…’

‘You were gently laid to rest in an earth-cave formed by the roots of a very lovely beech tree, one that was set aside for Parvon’s use. He wanted you to have it.’

‘That’s nice, considering.’

‘Well, he has never blamed you. Now come, hush a little. Pay attention.’

Gradually Fin noticed the other fëar around him, pale, wan shapes with indistinct features and strange, unclear regions distorting their forms, some looking brighter, more robust and others more unpleasant than others. He wondered if he looked like that, and glanced down at himself to see a strange mass where his legs used to be. He turned his gaze on Lord Námo, suddenly anxious.

‘Really, Glorfindel! You will upset everyone if you continue thinking along those lines! No, you are fine, this is what happens. The hröar are disintegrating outside, and the fëar have not yet been restored by sleep. So there is a certain amount of… blurring. Perhaps not a bad thing, the injuries some of you poor souls suffered. Now. Listen, and look.’

Listen, and look.

Fin wasn’t sure what he was looking at, not really. They seemed to be in some kind of gallery, and far below a stir of movement, shapes in the darkness, began to form and reform. A murmur, as unclear as the shapes and forms, and one of the Silvan fëar leaned forward as if to catch the sound.

One after another did the same, and then Glorfindel heard his own name, loud and clear, almost inside his head… Triwathon’s voice, saying his name, and others answering, replying, remembering, and… ah, was that Elrohir? He survived, then… wait. Of course Roh had survived, Fin would have known if he hadn’t… not used to this being dead again lark yet…

More voices, and more, overlapping, as if several people were talking all at once about him… somehow it soothed him and pained him; the grief was raw in some tones; Erestor, ah, poor Erestor, that he was so unhappy… but he had his Arveldir to take care of him, he shouldn’t…

…big, gruff voice, a lighter one answering, these two sounding sad and proud at the same time…

‘Thiriston and his Canadion,’ Lord Námo said. ‘Nearly had them both in here before now, you know, the big chap more than once. Resourceful, those two. And brave, really…’

‘It’s good of them, they’re a nice pair… what, more?’

Everyone in the garrison, it seemed, wanted to remember Glorfindel. So caught up was he in their recollections that it was only after a while, after the background voices remembering the Silvans had all but finished, that he realised that apart from the first, formal remembrances, he had not heard Triwathon’s voice. 

Again he turned to Lord Námo, saw the fine, handsome face frown in distraction.

‘Busy at the moment… it is so hard to do this at a distance… no, I will not welcome another fëa from that forest tonight… ah. There, that might… What now, little soul?’

‘Forgive me, you’ve been very patient, Lord, but… my friend Triwathon…?’

‘Have you not heard your name enough tonight?’

‘Not that, it’s… is he all right?’

‘Ah, I see the problem…’ Lord Námo reached out and picked up one of the tarnished and less-pleasant looking fëar up by what would have been the scruff of its neck, had it been properly shaped. He gave it a little shake. ‘Stop that! How dare you do such a thing, and here, too! Shame on you… I don’t think I will ever be able to let you out of here, do you know that? Honestly, I thought you might have one redeeming feature, but to try something like that…’ The fëa was compressed down and removed from sight, and Lord Námo turned back to Glorfindel. ‘There. I expect he will be now.’

Not entirely sure this was the answer he’d hoped for, Glorfindel turned his attention back to the dark void whence issued the voices of those participating in the Observances. Suddenly he heard his name, not announced formally, but spoken with anguish and loss and it almost took away his breath… then Parvon, speaking calmly and clearly, and, oh, yes, he remembered how the advisor had looked and kept looking when Fin and Triwathon had been laughing and talking together, as if he was starving… poor fellow. He had Triwathon all to himself now, but he probably wasn’t good company right at the moment…

An upsurge, a tide of grief and loss rose in his heart, and Fin wondered why now, why, when he was dead, was he still feeling the same emotional ties he had while he was alive.

‘It is because you are between places, so to speak. Your fëa is free of its hröa, but not yet established here. So your fëa‘s connections are stronger, unencumbered by flesh, thus for a brief time, those you have lost can influence your feelings. Which is what yon Girithon was attempting… honestly, I despair, I do not think I have a pit dark enough and deep enough for him…’

‘So… could I influence Triwathon…?’

‘Did you not just hear? Deep, dark pit…’

‘No, not like… not for anything bad, I just think he needs a bit of support… Affection, sort of thing.’

Since Lord Námo didn’t seem to be about to scrag him by the neck, Glorfindel allowed himself to think his way towards Triwathon. He sent out his grateful affection, his loving kindness, and then projected a sense of Triwathon looking towards Parvon and seeing him, really seeing his fëa, his heart, his loyal steadfastness… Fin had no idea if that was what Triwathon would be looking for in a sweetheart, but it was what was there, and he was doing neither Parvon nor Triwathon a disservice by doing so. He hoped it would help… but was afraid it might not.

‘You cannot make them love one another,’ Námo said kindly. ‘But that you are willing for them to try… it says much for your fëa, little soul. Time to come with me, I think.’

‘What? Already? Where have the others all gone…?’

‘To their recovery beds, happy in the knowledge they are loved and remembered… well, when I say “happy…” you know what I mean.’

‘I think so. The emotions and all, it’s upsetting when someone’s sad about you.’

‘Yes, you could say so. But by their next Night of the Names, their grief will have abated somewhat and they, and I include you amongst them – and you will be less connected to the physical world. Now, Glorfindel. This way.’

Lord Námo led – or seemed to lead - the way through the darkness to where a patch of brighter shadow punctuated the monochrome gloom. As they approached, the darkness fell away and a chamber formed, not dissimilar to Glorfindel’s rooms in Imladris from his early days there. The bed looked a replica, in fact, the wall hangings a fair copy, and the window in the right place.

‘There is no view, I am afraid,’ Lord Námo said. ‘But when you awake, you will not want to be looking out of the window; you will not wake alone.’

With that threat, or promise, in his mind, Glorfindel found himself settling into the bed and allowing himself to surrender to the healing darkness.


	32. The Mood of the New Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merenor's influence is felt... but Parvon cannot quite relax...

For Parvon, finding his way to the office after a long night of sharing names and supporting Triwathon, it was rather a shock to find Master Merenor installed in the Palace Office, but a pleasant one.

‘Master Parvon, see?’ Faerveren said, his voice happier than it had been for weeks. ‘Here is my Daerada – we will be all right now, will we not?’

He found himself almost wanting to echo Faerveren’s sentiments; there was something so reassuring in Merenor’s presence, even though the fellow had been attached to the King’s Office for far fewer decades than Parvon himself. Still, he smiled and offered a welcome, and was not entirely surprised when Merenor jumped up and gave him the same friendly hug he’d given Faerveren earlier.

‘Thank you, Master Merenor,’ Parvon said, disentangling himself with a smile. ‘This is treating me like family, indeed! Be welcome… are you well, you and your husband and family?’

‘Yes, thank you. My Hanben is here, too – he’s helping your Healer Mae at present. Everyone is fine at home. And so. Faerveren tells me that after the messages were sent, you and Commander Triwathon were involved in a terrible accident? I hope nobody else was hurt?’

Faerveren ducked his head.

‘I am sorry if I ought not have said, Master Parvon, but…’

‘No, no, it’s all right, don’t think for a minute…’ Parvon hurried to reassure his underscribe; it must have been a relief to have his grandfather show up, who could blame him for sharing…? ‘Master Merenor, you do understand, though, there is a need for discretion?’

‘Of course I do, Master Parvon. And there are those in my own family who suffered similar attacks by that same ellon in the past, so I also understand something of the distress surrounding such an incident. Now, if I may say, you look as if you haven’t slept in far too long. Is there anything I can help with, while you catch up with yourself a little?’

‘It’s kind, but no. You must have ridden all night and longer to get here…’

‘In fact, no. We decided we would be quicker in the canopy, with the trees helping. So, basically, we ran… mostly. Hence all we were able to bring were three packs of caul silk and a few bits and pieces… a bottle of winter wine for the emergency stocks, and a flask of fruit wine for Faerveren, who dislikes strong spirits, much to his credit.’

‘It is almost time for the breakfast meeting… we are having a meeting today?’ Parvon glanced at Faerveren. 

‘Yes, Master Parvon, but Daerada suggested it might be better to hold it a little later than usual. If you like, I will speak to the servants. Will we seek to include Lord Arveldir and Master Erestor also, or should they be allowed to rest?’

‘I am tempted to say the latter, but considering… slip a note through with a knock as you do so, our compliments, and we happen to know Healer Maereth has more healing supplies if Lord Arveldir would like to take Master Erestor along to benefit…’

‘What’s this?’ Merenor asked. ‘That lovely Noldo is injured? Poor chap… Arveldir must be worried! Shall I take the message…?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Parvon said, trying not to laugh; Merenor was still as outrageous a flirt as ever, although these days he claimed he was just interested in people… ‘Thank you, Faerveren. If you can track him down, let Commander Triwathon know of the meeting; he is welcome, but if he’s busy elsewhere, that’s fine.’

‘Yes, Master Parvon.’

He watched his underscribe leave with a wry smile.

‘No doubt he will do all that is asked of him, and then more on top,’ he said to Merenor. ‘Your grandson is far too helpful for his own good, I sometimes think. But I really do not know how we would have coped without him during the crisis.’

‘It’s good to know he’s been making himself useful,’ Merenor said.

*

The first sign of Faerveren’s usefulness came with a knock at the door and the entry of Captain Canadion.

‘Ada! It is true, you are here!’ he exclaimed, holding open his arms for his father to hug him.

‘My little Canadion!’ Merenor laughed, looking up into his son’s eyes. ‘Faerveren said you were well, are you?’

‘Oh, you know, a little bit bruised and scorched, but nothing serious. It is lovely to see you!’

‘And you, penneth. Is Thiriston well?’

‘Yes, we both are… oh, and Faerveren said, Master Parvon, that he has spoken to Healer Mae and she has sent Master Hanben directly to Master Erestor with some caul silk and fresh bandages to save him the walk.’

‘I wonder if he needs any help…?’ Merenor murmured, but Canadion laughed. ‘No, you stay here, Ada! I must get back, I only came to say hello, we are wanted to cheer up the elflings again… if you are not busy, Ada, you could come later to the schoolroom and bring your stories?’

‘After breakfast, if I am not needed elsewhere, penneth.’

*

Ten minutes later, Commander Triwathon arrived, standing behind a chair to greet Master Merenor, thus protecting himself from a friendly hug. If Merenor noticed, he didn’t say anything, in fact restraining himself to a smile and a polite enquiry for the Commander’s health. 

Before there was time for the conversation to grow stilted, a rattle outside and a gently scolding voice had Merenor leaping across the room to hold wide the door as first the wheeled invalid conveyance with Erestor in, and then a tall ellon with dark brown hair appeared, followed by Arveldir and finally Faerveren.

‘Yes, yes, I know, it is not to be borne, is it, Master Erestor? But if you will go leaping into flaming brush, what do you expect? There, now I will let Lord Arveldir take charge of you…’ He backed away from the wheeled conveyance and lifted his head towards Merenor. ‘I knew you would be interested in meeting Master Erestor again, my rogue, and so I thought I had better be present as well… Greetings, Commander Triwathon, Master Parvon. I hope my rascal of a husband has not plagued you too much?’

‘Master Hanben… be welcome… are you going to join the breakfast meeting too?’

‘Thank you, we will then be able to report to you on matters at the Old Palace and how your news was received.’

‘I will speak to the servant,’ Faerveren said. ‘We will need more seating as well as food…’

Merenor came to stand near Hanben, inserting himself under his arm as if he had always been there and looking up at his husband.

‘I expect you’ve heard the names of the dead from Maereth?’

‘Indeed. And not only Silvans…’

‘I heard, that lovely Glorfindel, dead! I know he had Silvan rites, is there a gemstone we may speak into? What?’ Merenor looked about him, for a distinct awkwardness filled the room suddenly. ‘It is early, still, the sun is not yet up, and it is still technically night, I am allowed to say, I remember Glorfindel, that lovely ellon, am I not?’

‘It’s not that,’ Triwathon said, his voice falling into the silence with reluctance. It’s… the stone. Yes, we have allotted Glorfindel a gemstone. It is very fine, in its way, perfect for him. But he had… someone new, someone special in his life, and that person must speak the first memories. So the gemstone is to travel to Imladris, and then return, when we can speak our hearts to it as we will. But not yet.’

‘As soon as I am recovered, I would like to set out,’ Erestor stirred in his seat. ‘I feel much better already for the new dressings.’

‘You will still be some days, though, my dear,’ Arveldir pointed out. ‘And it is a long journey home.’

‘It will feel longer still, with the news we carry,’ Erestor said. ‘But, yes. I need to be well enough before we set off so that I do not delay us on the road. Yet I start to want to be home.’

*

Faerveren’s faith in the restorative powers of his beloved grandfather seemed not entirely unfounded. Whether or not it was Merenor’s ease with people, the way he could become instantly interested in a person’s woes, or whether the promise of more help on the way lifted the spirits of the survivors, or just the catharsis of the Night of the Names – whatever the reasons, over the next few days the mood of the New Palace began to lose its desperate, chaotic edge. But even as the elves generally began to settle, so Parvon grew more anxious. He tried to hide it, and perhaps he did, from most of the elves in the palace. 

But not from his friends.

It was Triwathon who finally cornered him in the Palace Office. Seeing the determined look on the Commander’s face, Faerveren abandoned his filing and fled, pulling his grandfather with him.

‘Is there something I can help you with, Triwathon?’

‘Yes. You can tell me what’s bothering you. Although I think I can guess, in which case, you might worry less if you talk more…’

‘It is nothing. Well, it is almost nothing; it is simply… the king will arrive soon. And then…’

‘And then he will clear your name and commend your courage in keeping everyone safe.’

‘Not quite everyone.’

‘After the dragons, I mean. How you stopped people panicking, from falling into despair. Our king is considered harsh by outsiders, but that’s because he is harsh with them. With us, he just wants to protect us. You know this.’

‘But I killed…’

‘It was an accident. Arveldir will confirm it, Healer Maereth has her report on the body and what she found. And anyway, if it was your fault, it was my fault, too. Whatever happens, even if the king were to find you at fault, I would insist on sharing your fate.’

Parvon shook his head. ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘Nor is it necessary. You were the victim of an attack, I simply intervened, and it was my actions…’

‘But for your actions, who knows what might have happened? You saved me, Parvon, when I couldn’t save myself. You shouldn’t be punished for that. Nor will you be, I’m sure of it. But the king will soon be here, and then I am certain you will be exonerated.’

‘And what if I am? The king has never really settled in the New Palace; he has pretended to, but if he had decided he really wanted to be here, he would have moved the entire court years ago… and after this? I cannot bring myself to believe he will see the events here as anything other than a reason to disband the New Palace… You yourself said…’

Triwathon sighed. ‘Yes, it’s true. Where the future of the New Palace, and its garrison are concerned, I do have doubts… but it was not our fault!’ he said. ‘We did all we could…’

‘I know. But sometimes, that simply isn’t enough.’

‘Still, there is not much longer to wait. Until then, Parvon, try not to worry; it will not help.’

Parvon managed a hint of a smile.

‘I will if you will,’ he said.


	33. Interview With the Elvenking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil arrives and Parvon admits to his guilt...

His Majesty the Elvenking, Thranduil Oropherion, rode into the palace on a gleaming white elk at the head of his company. Beside him on a dapple-grey mare rode Nestoril, chief Healer of the Old Palace Healer Halls and consort to the king. It had to be said, though, had anyone dared phrase it like that to her face, she would have dimpled with smiles and pointed out that, in fact, the king was more often consort to her…

About them rode a troop of strong Silvan warriors, and behind came three supply carts, the narrow vehicles designed by Master Hanben for better mobility on forest trails. These were drawn by ponies rather than pulled by the donkeys for which the carts were originally designed, but there were limits, Thranduil had said, to how low the Elvenking could stoop in public, although he was privately rather fond of the little herd of donkeys kept in the palace paddocks.

The king arrived on the morning of the fourth day after the Night of the Names to horns blowing from the New Palace and a double row of elves lining the last half mile of the route. Dotted amongst them here and there were members of the garrison, fully armed, arrows and bows ready to hand. 

There were no cheers, no glad cries, but that was as it should be; so soon after the deaths reported, it would have been wrong had the Silvans welcomed him with anything less than formal, sombre bows.  
The gates closed behind the royal convoy. Parvon and Triwathon stood waiting to greet their king. As soon as he had dismounted, his steed led away for care, the Commander and the Advisor-in-Chief bowed.

‘Welcome your majesty,’ Parvon said, hearing his voice sounding thin and uncertain. ‘We are grateful for the honour of…’

‘Never mind all that,’ the king said briskly. ‘How many dead? Sixteen at the last count?’

‘Alas, it has risen since. Nineteen. Eighteen by dragon or by flame, one by mishap afterwards,’ Parvon said, his voice faltering on the last. ‘Sire, that is a matter which I must lay before you as urgent. Not all was in the missive sent in haste after…’

‘Very well. We will require a little time to brush off the dust of the trail,’ Thranduil said. ‘Then we will see you in our Hall of Audience.’

*

Thranduil had always had a way about him, and that had not changed since Parvon had last seen his king enthroned and holding audience. 

The Elvenking had ensconced himself in his formal Hall of Audience and now sat, a glass of good red wine set beside him, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, unconsciously intimidating his Chief Advisor simply by his regal presence, notwithstanding the fact that it had been Parvon begged a private word before the formal reports were even begun.

‘Proceed, Master Parvon.’

Parvon swallowed.

‘My king, this matter… I wish to bring it to you myself… It looks… may look…’

‘Whatever it is surely does not require such deliberation? There are pressing matters…’

‘Sire, I know, it is simply…’ He took a breath and let the words go with his exhalation. ‘The messages went off before this incident took place. Otherwise, it would have been mentioned, but its omission... the messenger who brought us tidings of the dragon…’

‘Belatedly, I understand. I hope he is in the cells, if not in irons?’

‘In fact, my king, he is in the Halls of Mandos.’

‘How very fortuitous! Do tell me whom I have to thank for sparing me the trouble of deciding how to punish him for his deliberate tardiness?’

‘Sir, it was… it was I. But I do not want thanks, it was an accident, and it weighs on me, for I killed him, accident or no, and so, if you will, I am willing to accept any punishment you would have given him, in payment for my actions…’

Thranduil waved a languid hand.

‘Parvon, I really did not think you, of all elves, would take so dramatic a turn… come, tell me, then?’

‘An accident, as I say. I… to begin, you may not have heard, but the Balrog-Slayer, the Lord of the House of Gondolin, lately Seneschal of Imladris…’

‘Glorfindel, yes, continue…?’

‘He died, sire, helping kill the dragons. He was honoured with full Silvan rites.’

‘I see. Or rather, I do not…?’

‘Prior to his burial in the forest, he was lying in state attended by the Garrison Commander. By some chance, the messenger had got into the room, and then attacked the commander. I happened by and intervened.’

‘Of course you did. I seem to remember the messenger was quite a powerful individual in appearance, taller than most?’ Thranduil’s gaze was measuring; Parvon was at least a hand’s breadth shorter than the majority of elves, and slight with it. ‘And the commander, while not quite of the same build, still required your aid?’

‘He had been taken unawares, sire, and was exhausted with the stress of battling the dragons and trying to get our people safe. But yes, I… in hindsight, I ought to have called the guard, which would have disturbed the attack but I did not think. Instead, I acted instinctively, I pulled the messenger away and then hit him… and he staggered back and slipped, falling. At the time, I thought him simply unconscious, and was more concerned to attend the commander.’

‘I can understand your concern with the charming of the two. And the commander?’

‘Bruised and shaken and… rather mortified, sire, that he had need of rescue. However, the case is, I killed the messenger. I wished to tell you in person, more to explain why this news was not in the messages. I had just learned of the messenger’s perfidy – that he had been in the local villages for at least one night – and that he knew for a fact the content of the missives in his care. It seemed to me that people would not have died, had he not delayed on the road, and this fuelled my anger.’

‘As well as the sight of him mauling your friend, no doubt! Oh, come, Master Parvon, do not look so shocked! We know of the deceased’s habit of annoying decent elves, and it would be just like him to seize the chance to prey on a vulnerable elf; it is widely known that Commander Triwathon was close to Glorfindel; I am sure he was quite distraught which would have made him less watchful than usual.’   
The king paused. ‘It was well done of you to bring this to my attention. No doubt there are formal records?’

‘Yes, my king. Healer Maereth examined both Commander Triwathon and the body of the deceased. Moreover, Lord Arveldir is currently visiting, and he went to examine the room for himself. While there he received an account from a most dependable, if unusual source.’

‘And now you have made me curious, Master Parvon. But no doubt Arveldir will tell me for himself when the moment comes. Very well. I am sure you must have other work to be doing?’

It was as polite a dismissal as one was like to get from Thranduil. Parvon bowed.

‘I do, of course, sire, but before I go, if I may offer some thought to an appropriate punishment for my part in this untimely death… in the wake of the destruction of the villages, some elves are now beginning to talk of taking ship. This being so, I offer my services…’

‘To facilitate their departure? This would be part of your normal duties, and not a punishment, Parvon, surely?’

‘Indeed, but I meant to… to accompany them.’

‘Ah. Now I think I see.’ Thranduil lazily lifted an eyebrow and may have given the smallest of smiles; it was difficult to tell. ‘But I am not sure how Lord Cirdan would react to the implication that the Grey Havens are a fitting destination as punishment…’

‘I meant… across the seas.’ Suddenly, now he had begun to talk about actually leaving the forest and all he had known no longer seemed such a good idea and Parvon’s voice grew sharp with dread. ‘I offer myself up for banishment, in short.’

‘That will not be necessary. Moreover, you do see that it is most unusual for a felon to suggest his own punishment, do you not? I must have time to learn all the facts, but, Master Parvon, allowing you to leave these shores would not only punish you, but also us. We would be much poorer without your service. And now, I thank you for the honour of your confidence, we will reconvene for formal reports after the day meal, at which I shall be present. Therefore you have a hall to ready, you may go.’

Parvon bowed his way out, not quite sure what had just happened other than that he was left feeling more like to a naughty elfling than a murdering kinslayer. He hadn’t gone far down the corridor when Triwathon stepped out of the shadows.

‘Are you all right? How was the king?’

‘Impossible, he is just… I can no longer read him, he seemed almost to be… to be laughing at me… not at all shocked, but I killed… and…’

‘It seems he already knew. I didn’t ask too closely, but I gather what happened was that Merenor may have got a message to our king on the road. He’d deny it, I think, if pressed, but something Nestoril said made me think Thranduil knows a lot more than we sent in the messages… so either someone has been using their initiative, or the trees have been gossiping about things they couldn’t have seen, or our king has ways of reading our minds and hearts…’

‘Which really would not surprise me.’ Parvon sighed. ‘It is just… I think I would feel better if I were made to pay for the messenger’s death, somehow…’

‘I understand that completely! It helps with the guilt, I know. Even when there isn’t anything to feel guilty about. Parvon, I have to go – there will be an inspection of the garrison, no doubt, and I want to have everything sharp. But if you need me…’

Parvon nodded. ‘I am grateful. As for me, I have the hall to oversee; his majesty is going to take the day meal with us.’

‘Are not we blessed?’ Triwathon murmured. ‘Try not to worry; I have told you, if you are culpable, then so also am I and I will stand with you.’

*

Word having spread that his majesty the Elvenking would be eating the day meal in the hall, everyone who was able, it seemed, decided to do the same; the hall was as near full as Parvon had ever seen it. Servers did their best to keep up, and for the most part, managed well and the food was plentiful, not least because the three wagons Thranduil had brought contained a considerable quantity of comestibles. 

As Thranduil took his seat, a murmur ran around the hall and he lifted an eyebrow towards Master Parvon at his side.

‘While it is gratifying that my subjects are so interested in my doings, I hardly think my sitting down to the middle day meal is an occasion for such intense attention,’ Thranduil said. ‘They surely do not expect speeches?’

‘I think, sire, if you would just acknowledge them…’

‘Oh, very well! But I had intended speeches for tonight.’ Thranduil rose to his feet and lifted his wineglass. ‘My Silvans,’ he began. ‘Guests from Imladris and beyond, be welcome amongst us. It was with great sorrow that I learned of the destruction of so much, the deaths of so many. The names having been conveyed to me by messenger hawk, we remembered them during the Night of the Names, and we will continue to remember them, their needless deaths. But for the moment, we must secure what we have and look to the future. During my stay I intend to visit the three damaged villages and their associated sites. Meanwhile, we are grateful for your welcome and I shall speak further in days to come.’

He drained his glass, set it down, and addressed himself to the food before, not looking up or attempting conversation around him. As soon as he had eaten, and without ceremony, he rose and left the hall, leaving Parvon to restore order while simultaneously trying to extricate himself and follow the king.

‘No, as yet, I do not know what our king intends… the time of his visit to the damaged villages has not yet been arranged… where the homeless will be rehomed and how has yet to be ascertained… in short, he’s been here for barely two hours, I know he is our king, but he has not had time for half of the things you seem to think he ought to have done!’ Parvon was as near to losing his temper as he could ever remember. ‘If you will excuse me, there is a formal meeting I must attend and it is not you who will be held to account if I am late…’


	34. First Order of Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil considers events around the death of the tardy messenger...

‘Our first order of business,’ Thranduil began, carefully not looking too closely at the elves assembled before him, ‘will be to decide on the matter of the death of the messenger; namely, whether his death was murder or accident. I have looked over the depositions, but those of you who made these reports, I would have you repeat for me your impressions of events. I will not make so bold as to call one of the witnesses to my presence; I rather think Lord Námo has been in my forests enough for the moment…’

It was intended to lift the mood a little, but as Thranduil allowed his eyes to rest on the company, he realised it had not had the effect he had wanted. Master Parvon was looking as guilty as if he had not only killed the messenger, but was responsible for the deaths by dragon and flame besides… Commander Triwathon looked only marginally less shifty… there was a slight possibility, perhaps, that he may be in some way… not exactly to blame… but… not entirely free from complicity…

Master Faerveren looked a little flustered, but then Thranduil’s understanding that he was quite a junior underscribe and so events of the previous few days had probably been rather taxing for him… Healer Maereth was standing close to the youngster, and, ah, yes, he remembered Healer Maereth… she had been quite shy at one time, rather in awe of him… time seemed to have steadied her and certainly while she and he had been at the New Palace, there had been no difficulties of understanding. Making up the group was Lord Arveldir, no longer in the king’s employ… Thranduil had been told, of course, of the arrival of the Imladris elves in time to assist against the dragons… Erestor, Arveldir’s husband had been injured while bringing an elfling to safety; no doubt Arveldir was wishing to get back to his spouse as soon as may be…

‘Very well. Since I have had chance to peruse all the reports – a very thorough job, someone ought to thank the scribe responsible… I think a very few questions will suffice. Healer Maereth, you examined the commander just after the incident?’

Healer Mae gulped as she bowed.

‘Yes, my lord king, I did and he – his throat – was terribly marked and bruised. Once could make out the impressions of individual fingers, and he was most distressed.’

‘The bruising is still there now,’ Healer Nestoril added. ‘Faded, but present. As is the distress caused by the encounter, I might add.’

‘And the examination you made of the deceased, Healer Maereth?’

‘To clarify, there were no marks on the body such as might be made by a blade. A large contusion, just forming, showed on the jaw, but the cause of death was a broken neck. Residue of soap solution and blood on the underside of the deceased’s footwear shows where he had skidded and, from where the body came to rest against the wall, fallen and broken his neck.’

‘That is quite clear, thank you, Maereth.’

Arveldir cleared his throat and bowed himself forward.

‘Sire, if you will permit me to speak? I have other matters pending…’

‘Of course. How is Erestor?’

‘In fact, my lord king, he is improving, and wants to leave for home as soon as possible. I am attempting to keep him still long enough to properly heal in order to facilitate his wishes.’

Thranduil hid a smile. He had missed the refined banter he had used to enjoy with his advisor; Master Parvon was still a little too junior to allow himself to believe his king might enjoy a joke on occasion.

‘Choose your own words, then, Arveldir, but be thorough.’

‘Sire. On being told of the death, I went to examine the room and the body; it was felt I was an impartial witness and could speak with a degree of authority. As Healer Maereth has said, there were no indications of bladed wounds; this is relevant because had Master Parvon intended to injure the messenger, he would surely have armed himself. It is true that he struck a blow with his fist, but it was to assist the Commander who was under attack at the time. To the attack there is an independent witness whom, alas, we cannot call to speak for himself. But the Vala lord Námo was here to collect the fëa of the deceased and he saw the events leading to the death.’

‘Quite. Very well, you may leave if you wish, or remain to hear my judgement.’

Arveldir bowed again, retreating to a station close to the doors and Thranduil paused for a moment. By rights he ought to call Triwathon to speak up, and Parvon, but he had already had private speech with the advisor and as for the commander… he was not quite sure the alleged attack had been intended as a violent one, but had probably become one when Triwathon had protested; he had no wish to make him speak of what must have been an uncomfortable experience at the least.

‘To summarise. An unfortunate misunderstanding on the part of the garrison duty guard led to the door to Lord Glorfindel’s resting place being left unmonitored while Commander Triwathon was within. The messenger – who had just been found responsible for a gross dereliction of duty, and who may have been looking for a place to hide, instead finding Commander Triwathon within, laid violent hands upon him. Master Parvon, happening by, and too worried to consider calling for help, pulled the attacker away and hit him, causing the deceased to slip and fall, breaking his neck in the process. That the death was accidental is attested to, not only by several Silvans of good repute, but by one of the Valar themselves. Therefore it is our finding that Master Parvon has nothing about which to reproach himself and he is completely exonerated of any culpability in this matter.’

Parvon’s sigh of relief was audible, and, Thranduil noted, echoed by more than one elf in the hall. The advisor seeming to become suddenly unsteady, Thranduil glanced towards Nestoril, hoping to give her a hint, but before his hint was needed, Commander Triwathon had opened the doors.

‘Dismissed,’ Thranduil said hastily, realising Triwathon intended beating a retreat with Parvon whether granted permission or no… at least it looked like an order now. ‘I will speak with you tomorrow, Commander.’

‘As my king pleases,’ Triwathon said.

He grabbed Parvon by the elbow, leading him from the room with Faerveren on his other side and Arveldir in close pursuit. Healer Maereth deciding now was a good time to make her own exit, the king was left with only Healer Nestoril for company.

‘That went well, I think,’ he said, and Ness smiled with a shrug.

‘Poor Parvon! He has been quite anxious, you know! Convinced it was his fault, and imagining all sorts of things….’

‘Indeed.’ Thranduil unbent a little, sighing out a breath. ‘He came to see me privately, and offered to exile himself, in fact, as punishment.’

‘Goodness! Poor Parvon! I wonder what can have made him even consider such a thing?’

‘That, my dear friend, is something you are perhaps better placed to discover than am I.’

*

As soon as Parvon seemed to have recovered his stability, Triwathon released his supporting grip and Faerveren fell into step behind the two of them, Healer Maereth at his side. Parvon laughed.

‘Really, I do not need such an escort, nor so much care, it was just the relief… I am fine.’

‘Then shall we return to the Palace Office?’ Faerveren suggested. ‘There have been countless enquiries to answer, and as I had been called to the meeting, I have not been able to deal with any of them…’

Triwathon laughed.

‘And so, if you really are fine, my friend, I am sure you will enjoy getting back to work immediately… or you could come and help me with a matter in my office? We will disturb Faerveren less that way as he tries to sort out these enquiries of his…’

‘They are not my enquiries, Commander, but…’

‘Or Parvon could come with me and I can make sure he is left alone to recover!’ Maereth said. ‘The pair of you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, let our poor friend have a moment…’

‘I am fine, really! Very well… Triwathon, is it an urgent matter?’

‘No, it was just a way for you to escape work for an hour, if you needed it. I am sure Faerveren can cope admirably alone…’

‘In fact, Commander, my Daerada has been taking care of the office while we were with our king; I will not be alone.’

‘In which case…’ Maereth began, to be cut off by Parvon’s shake of the head.

‘In which case, as I am not longer under house arrest, I think I would like to walk in the forest for a little. Commander, if you’re worried about the safety of our boundaries, you may come with me if you wish.’


	35. Delegating...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon finds a job for Master Merenor...

Parvon was glad he had Triwathon with him as he made his way through the forest towards the three villages, for had he been alone, he thought he would have wept.

Close to the New Palace, there was little evidence of the terrible events that had ravaged the community, but once past the memorial cairn, pausing to bow and taking the path to Beech as being nearest, Parvon saw, smelled, felt the devastation increased exponentially, leaving him horrified and Triwathon shaking his head. 

They halted close to the Heart Grove of Beech Village to take stock. A smell of stale smoke lingered, the taint of charring, of burnt meats faint amongst the dark stench of destruction. Many of the trees were blackened obelisks of once-living wood, several smaller saplings had succumbed completely and fallen to the forest floor. Ash lay thick in drifts and mounds and those trees that survived were silent with shock and fear.

‘It was so different, on the night,’ the commander said. 'Darkness hides much, and the shadows between the flames hid more, I think. Besides, I believe I might have wished to find the damage less than I remembered… but it is so much more than I imagined.’   


Parvon sighed. ‘We ought to go nearer, I suppose.’

‘There may be danger, still. My company hasn’t been out since the first sweep to check nobody was left to bring in,’ Triwathon said. ‘I wanted volunteers to come and make all safe, but once that was done, I had not the heart to ask again.’

‘I’ll risk it, if you will.’

Together they crossed the grove, Triwathon leading the way towards the water tanks.

‘Empty. They insisted on staying to fight the fires, and it seems they used all their supplies. But it wasn’t enough.’

No. It could never have been enough.

‘I suppose I will need to interview the survivors,’ Parvon said, his voice heavy. ‘The king will want written reports, and our own perspective is only from after the attacks started… they will blame us, you know, for not keeping them safe, although we tried…!’

‘We did, we both tried. But when village elders go to the king and protest that the Palace Garrison and Palace Office are interfering in their attempts at a natural life, what is the king to do? They refused our help, they said they could cope without our help, that we were interfering and imposing our order on their lifestyles… I doubt they expected this, though; none of us did! I thought, at the worst, an odd orc-pack or two, having survived and hidden out. Or… or wargs, hunting… but not dragons, not so many, not so much…!’

‘How many arguments did you have with the villagers on the night, trying to get them to leave as the flames reached for them? How much time was wasted? Do you really think, with clear skies and all well, that anyone would have believed the message from the Old Palace, had it arrived in time? No, I think your warriors would have had to march them, at sword-point, to safety…’

Triwathon gave a sharp laugh.

‘Yes, they never would listen… perhaps it is me, perhaps they take me too lightly because I am young for this job, or because of my past, my previous associations… but…’

‘No, not that, Triw.’ Parvon softened his voice. ‘You are young for this sort of command, fair enough. But so am I, really; that was the point, that we would move forward into the Fourth Age more easily because we were not so tied to the Third… to start anew, in a different location, to bring first those elves who would be bold enough to live amongst the trees again… that it also brought some of the real die-hards has been unfortunate. But our king is here now, perhaps he will have something to say. The reports, though, I am not looking forward to taking notes that blame us for all this and I can’t ask my assistant to do more than he is, and I cannot delegate outside of the Palace Office…’

‘Well… it’s not my business, I know, but if… I have a thought… you know the ever-friendly Master Merenor? Did he not say, if there is anything he can do to help…?’

‘Yes?’ Parvon was glad to be diverted from his sombre thoughts. ‘Set him to flirting with the homeless elves?’

‘Something like that… I was thinking, King’s Office elf… you might ask him to take the depositions on behalf of the Palace Office. Delegate to him.’

‘Triw, that’s perfect, he’s such a charmer, and both ellith and ellyn alike can’t help but like him… and he’s not seen as a New Palace elf, so they will be glad to talk to him…’

‘To give their – ahem – unbiased versions of events to an objective witness… I doubt we will be seen in a good light, but you would, at least, be spared the accusations of the dispossessed to your face…’

The change of subject, and the prospect of letting another elf take the strain of hearing complaints for a while, buoyed Parvon’s spirits and kept the pair of them so occupied on the way home that they were within sight of the gates before they knew it. Abruptly, Triwathon stopped.

‘Parvon… I had intended going to the place where… where our friend… where the Lord of Gondolin fell… would you… come back with me?’

‘He is not there, Triwathon,’ Parvon said softly, as gently as he could. ‘And I would come with you, of course, but… seeing the glade again would only sadden your heart. I do not say, don’t think of him, release him from your thoughts… but… try not to make yourself sadder than you need be. You don’t deserve to suffer.’

Triwathon shook his head.

‘None of us deserve it, Parvon, my friend. And yet it is happening to so many of us… but you are right. Come. I need to organise my troops and you have an elf to set to work.’

*

Master Merenor was delighted to be given a job to do.

‘I love talking to people, you know! Perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, someone else could sit in with me? My Hanben, maybe, or Master Faerveren, or someone from the healers’ rooms…? It is just, it is bound to be upsetting, and if an elf cries, well, one would have to offer comfort, and I would like a witness there in case any distressed elves wanted to be more comforted than I, as a married ellon, can offer…?’

Parvon carefully kept his mouth from smiling; Merenor’s eyes were solemn, but there was an air of innocent mischief about him that almost dared Parvon to say something…

‘An excellent notion! Then, if one of you misses something, the other is bound to hear it… I will arrange a nice room for you to set up in, warm, and with good chairs to put people at ease. I am not sure how to organise it… perhaps an announcement at dinner…?’

‘If so, then make sure they know I only work during sensible hours!’ Merenor said. ‘I do like to spend time with my family, you know!’

‘Master Merenor, that is one of two things everyone knows about you.’

‘Dare I ask what the other is?’

‘That you are devoted to your husband, of course.’


	36. Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Master Merenor has lots of friendly chats...

It took Master Merenor the best part of three days to hear and note down all the stories of the dispossessed and bereaved, sometimes with his husband present, at other times with Healer Maereth there. It was an odd thing, but the bereaved were more generally forgiving of what the merely dispossessed elves saw as the poor response of the garrison to the dragon attack. He mentioned it to Healer Maereth at the end of the final session, and she nodded.

‘Yes, it is the same with all those who were seriously hurt or separated from their elflings; they realise how much they have to be grateful for, rather than what they have lost.’

‘It seems to have been a terrible business, and the worst of it is, all could have been different but for the messenger… how is Commander Triwathon now, is he over the attack, do you think?’

‘I do not think so, not really. Coupled so closely with the death of his friend – the body of the poor Lord of Gondolin was actually in the room when the commander was attacked – it has had more of an impact, I think, than it would had he not been grieving. You know they were close, of course?’

‘I do, I remember telling the Lord Balrog-slayer that Triwathon was waiting for him… ah, so long ago now, yet so fresh in my memory… he stole my bottle of winter-wine, you know… well, appropriated it, and I didn’t mind, really… that was when I brought Healer Ness back from her adventures…’

‘Oh, we were so pleased to see her! And she was so low-spirited. Still, she has found her happiness now.’

‘And well deserved it is… well, shall we gather up our notes and take them to his majesty? He wanted them as soon as we were done…’

And so, in those hours when he wasn’t actively taking notes from aggrieved elves, Merenor gossiped his way gently around the New Palace, picking up all sorts of information. In one of his innocent conversations with Healer Nestoril, he learned that when she had examined Triwathon: ‘…the poor commander was almost in tears! And I was very gentle with his neck and throat, but I could feel the distress… and even Mae asked if it was really necessary…’ and in a little chat with the corridor servants, discovered Master Parvon and Commander Triwathon had almost spent the Night of the Names in separate commemorations, because of Lord Arveldir needing someone to share with, leading to unfounded rumours that perhaps Lord Arveldir missed the Seneschal of Imladris more than was proper for him to admit in front of his spouse. 

‘Oh, I am sure that cannot be the case!’ Merenor said quickly as he moved on. ‘He loves his handsome Noldo husband far too much! Now, may I steal some food from you? I don’t think I can spare time for the hall day-meal today, and I intend spending the hour with my grandson in the Palace Office, so if there’s enough for two…? Lovely, you are helpful, I am very grateful…’ 

*

Faerveren, delighted to have his Daerada bring food and share the day-meal in the otherwise empty Palace Office, chattered away happily about Master Parvon, about finding him dispirited sometimes, and worrying about him, in an entirely friendly and not-romantic manner whatsoever.

‘Because, after all, Master Parvon’s fëa is bound to Commander Triwathon’s. Is not it odd, Daerada, how everyone knows it except the commander? And they had a terrible falling-out, although neither of them admit it, and I think the Commander didn’t like me helping Master Parvon as much as I was, but what was I to do? We were suddenly busy, there was work to be done…’

‘Not-romantic, eh? Of course not, you’re far too professional… but, penneth, you wouldn’t be the first to have a teeny little crush on your superior – it happens all the time, everywhere…’

‘Oh, but no, Daerada, really…! I like Master Parvon very much, but he has – while I have had no family here – he has been like a brother or uncle to me! He even offered me advice, which was kind… I did wonder why, at the time, but if you think I am… then he may also have… but he told me, you see, he said, do not settle for less than your fëa-mate. And I think he is right, because he would not console himself with anyone, he is waiting for Triwathon to see him. Although, if I may venture an opinion, Parvon might easily find someone who would be much nicer to him and, to me, it seems that Commander Triwathon will get the better part of the bargain. It is almost as if, by remaining true to his fëa, Master Parvon may find himself settling for someone not properly suited to his nature. But the fëa wants what the fëa wants, and who am I to question the choices of my master?’

‘Goodness, Faerveren, you have had a lot to manage, have you not? And so wise as to the ways of the heart already… yes, I know what you mean… Commander Triwathon is lovely, though, he is just… caught up in glory, perhaps. And Master Parvon far too gentle and nice to be as forthright as he maybe should be…’

‘Indeed. Do you think… because, with the Lord of Gondolin coming back, and the commander falling in love with him all over again, do you think that might be why Master Parvon suggested to our king that he take charge of the next company that wishes to sail, even going across the seas with them?’

Merenor blinked. Parvon, sail? Leave his unseeing beloved behind and forever distance himself from his fëa’s other half…? But Faerveren was in full spate now.

‘Because, of course, the Lord of Gondolin, he will return to his beloved Lord of the Fountains, and so Commander Triwathon would find it painful, perhaps, seeing his lover with someone else. But sometimes, Daerada, do you know, sometimes I think of poor Master Parvon and then wonder if such a thing might not serve Commander Triwathon right!’ 

‘Well, now,’ Merenor began, trying to take all this in and sound as if he knew what he was talking about, and not a little surprised at his grandson’s decided opinion on the topic. ‘Master Parvon is a one-elf elf, you see. He has lived with his feelings for the commander for so long now, I think he would not want to learn to love another, even if he could. So perhaps, by sailing, he would put himself out of reach of the torment of constantly seeing the one he loves, but being unable to do more than be his friend. It would be a brave move, if so. But could it not simply be that he has no family here any longer? I know from past discussions, he told me he would be reluctant to sail, but then, his brother died in battle – I remember his brother, lovely fellow, saved me from a nasty scrape, once – and not long after that, the rest of the family sailed.’

Privately, Merenor wondered how Parvon had felt about that, that his parents would leave him behind and go chasing off to the Undying Lands to be there when their other son left the Halls of Waiting; it seemed far too sad, to his mind.

‘Yes, but, Daerada…’ Faerveren continued in subdued tones. ‘I am not sure… now I think… that I should have mentioned this to you. I think it is meant to be a secret, and Master Parvon would not like it if the commander were to know he had offered to sail…’

‘I am not surprised, penneth; it might feel like a betrayal, since they have worked together to build this place… but don’t you worry, I won’t say a word to anyone about it. And now you’ve got it out of your head, you don’t need to worry about letting anything slip either. Not even if the king asks – it is far too good a story not to keep to myself!’

*

Sure enough, when asked by the Elvenking what the mood of gossip was like, he just shrugged and kept several of the best stories to himself.

‘People generally blame the garrison and the palace for their discomfort, not their own reluctance to have safety measures in place.’ He spread his hands. ‘That is all, really.’

‘Indeed? Have you lost your skill in gossip, Merenor, or are people simply not confiding in you? For there is a wild tale that Master Parvon offered to sail as penance for his part in the death of the messenger… I said it was nonsense, of course, that the Chief Scribe would not even consider such a thing…’

‘Master Parvon and Commander Triwathon have worked so hard here, I cannot imagine him wishing to leave his work at the New Palace unfinished… unless there is no future for him here…’

‘Indeed, one might ask, why would he choose to sail? I should be most interested in his reasons…’ Thranduil let the comment slide into Merenor’s possession, certain that where Ness had failed (or refused to find out) Merenor would probably bring back all the information he needed. ‘Now, about those reports… I intend making a decision about the future of the ruined villages shortly, once I have been to see for myself. Obviously, Master Parvon and Commander Triwathon will expect to accompany me… but what I would prefer, Master Merenor, is an independent individual who may have been in the forest on the night. If anyone can think of someone, it will be you…’

‘Rusdir,’ Merenor said immediately. ‘He is mourning his honour-sister, it is true, but when we spoke, he sounded as if he was becoming resigned… he is certainly independent, and was one of your majesty’s warriors in his day.’

‘Yes, indeed. Arrange it, would you? You may include yourself in the expedition, if you wish, as long as you do not let Parvon or Triwathon know about it until after the event; you are right that there seems a certain upwelling of feeling against them, and were they to accompany me into the forest, no doubt the good elves who have written so strongly their thoughts would doubt the objectivity of even my Garrison Commander and Chief Scribe.’

‘Gladly, sire. It is such a shame, and the Commander and Master Parvon do seem quite anxious about their future here…’

‘No doubt,’ Thranduil said drily. ‘And do not be trying your wiles on me, Master Merenor; I will not be drawn on the matter of the dissolution of the New Palace until after I have seen for myself.’

‘Of course, sire,’ Merenor said. ‘Your majesty would not like such information to be made public, at least not until after my king has made up his mind what to do.’

‘Quite. I… Merenor?’

But Master Merenor had already bowed himself out of the royal presence, hugging the knowledge to himself that perhaps the king was not as immune to an advisor’s wiles as he might like to believe…

*

When Merenor approached Rusdir and explained the king’s wishes, the former captain began to nod.

‘Yes, yes indeed, for it was terrible, and the dragons came down so suddenly… Elrohir and I sounded the alarms, but…’

‘Rus, you gave Master Merenor a full account two days ago,’ Elrohir interposed gently. ‘And I don’t want you upsetting yourself more over this…’

‘I know, but… it is important, I think, for someone to show my king all the wheres and the hows of the night. The Einior will not think to mention how he disbelieved us at first, wasting valuable time, how nobody except us seemed to think gathering in the Heart Glade was a bad idea… this is something I can do, a way I can honour my honour-sister.’

‘And who else is going?’

Merenor considered. ‘His majesty the king has asked me to attend him, so I will be there, with my husband Hanben. Perhaps Healer Nestoril, but I think the idea is to keep it to a small party. But I am sure he would not object to your presences, Lord Elrohir…’

‘No, I’ll stay with the elflings.’

‘Of course. How are they now? It must have been dreadful, and as young as they are, how to make sense of any of it… I am a father myself, you know, and so I understand how worried you must be for them. But, if it is any comfort, little ones are strong in ways we adult elves don’t remember.’

‘Thank you, I am sure you…’ Elrohir broke off; he had been about to dismiss Merenor’s attempt at sympathy, but saw only compassion in his eyes and sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, you love your children and grandchildren and, in fact, everyone’s children… and I know you’ve been spending time with the little ones who haven’t been claimed by their families yet… so you know…’

Merenor nodded.

‘I know. Sometimes I wish I did not, but I know. My youngest and his husband adopted a child of the forest, after the Battle of the Five Armies. He had been… damaged by events, but they loved him anyway. And he found a measure of peace, grew up, found love, and they sailed young. Well. Elflings aside, will you come, Rusdir?’

‘Yes. I will come.’


	37. Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil takes it upon himself to address the assembled elves...

Almost a week had passed since the king’s arrival and Parvon knew for a fact that the reports had been handed to Thranduil for his perusal some days previously. 

Yet no summons had come to accompany his majesty into the forest. 

While in a way this came as a relief – Parvon didn’t think he could bear to see that destruction again – he was also concerned, for the mood of the New Palace was growing impatient and, of course, the Palace Office was the first door knocked on by complaining elves.

But whatever might have caused the Elvenking’s reticence in visiting the scene of the disaster, suddenly Thranduil sent word that Parvon was to issue a summons for as many elves as possible to be present at the night meal, for he had an announcement to make that would have bearing on them all. 

This was alarming in itself; but now Thranduil sat in state in his elaborate chair wearing his winter silver-and-berry crown, and the top table was as full as Parvon could arrange it without people sitting on each other’s laps.

Nestoril was at the king’s side and around him the usual court was assembled; Triwathon and Parvon were to Thranduil’s left with Maereth and her assistant Othwen on Nestoril’s right; Merenor and Hanben, Rusdir and Elrohir, Erestor and Arveldir, Narunir and several Galadhrim filling the remaining spaces at the top table; Faerveren was also present, attending but not seated, presiding for the first time with the king at table.   
Thiriston, Canadion, Celeguel and Amathel were on the second table close to proceedings, and the room generally was as packed as Thranduil could have wished.

Once the food was eaten, the wine drunk, and Thranduil glanced at Parvon to signal to Faerveren, who called the hall to attention with only a slight tremor in his voice.

Thranduil lifted a hand and addressed the company.

‘While we have been here, we have seen for ourselves the devastation and destruction of the area around the three villages of Ash, Oak and Beech…’

Parvon frowned. Had he? If so, it had happened without Parvon attending… or had Triwathon taken the king out…? When? He looked the question at Triwathon, who shrugged and shook his head.

‘…it was important to us that we had only impartial companions, and so we were attended by Master Merenor and Master Hanben, with former Captain Rusdir who had been staying in one of the villages with his family. Merenor has been diligently taking notes from those caught up in the tragedy, while Hanben has seen for himself some of the injuries sustained… in the light of these recent events, and given the circumstances… after taking all things into account we have come to a decision.’ Thranduil put firmness into the last word, getting the full attention of everyone in the room. ‘Good. You are listening, I see. To begin with, the announcement I am about to make is settled, decided. It is not open to debate, nor is it negotiable in any way, shape or form. Moreover, it is my pronouncement, decided upon without the advice of any incumbent of the New Palace… in other words, do not seek to trouble Master Parvon or Commander Triwathon on this subject for they are neither responsible, nor to blame, and nothing they may say or do will alter this decision, do I make myself clear…? Very well.’

Parvon glanced across at the king; there had been something in his voice that suggested he was actually enjoying himself… The advisor felt a wave of dread rising in him, and he could see Arveldir, across from him, lifting his eyes heavenwards… of old, Thranduil had been given to making announcements which Arveldir then had to explain or put right or simply implement in the face of adversity; he would sympathise with Parvon about whatever was coming next…

‘The area around the three villages will not be rendered habitable again. Instead, it will be made safe and given such healing as we can, and left as a memorial to those who lost their lives in the dragon attack.’

Consternation in the hall. Mutterings from homeless elves who had hoped to go back and resume what was left of their lives in their old homes. The king ignored them and continued.

‘Moreover, the dreadful nature of this attack makes us concerned for the safety of all elves out here; despite the best work of the garrison, warnings did not get through and so we feel we cannot, in all conscience, support the lifestyles of those elves in the villages between the New Palace and the Old…’

More stirrings, actual mutterings came from the hall now. Accusatory glances towards Triwathon and Parvon; the commander took a sharp breath in, and Parvon winced.

‘From this point on, the villages can no longer expect support and help from the garrison here; their task will be to restore the memorial zone and support and assist any elves seeking to take ship across the Sundering Seas to the Undying Lands… I know, I know: you are Silvan, you do not sail… but some of you have said you would like to, in spite of this. Those elves made homeless will find new lodgings in the Old Palace and its environs, where there are a number of talain settlements which are within the perimeter, if life in the open forest is what they seek. If there are any questions, give them to your Village Elders and have them come to a meeting tomorrow, the time and location of which will be put on one of the boards as is the usual pattern. Very well. Goodnight.’

Thranduil pushed back his chair and stalked from the hall, Nestoril hurrying after him. Parvon and Triwathon stared at each other.

‘What did he just do?’

‘Made our lives impossible, I think. Come on, if we hurry, we can get away before they corner us.’

Like two naughty elflings, Parvon and Triwathon almost fled from the table. Faerveren looking after them in bewilderment. His grandfather put a hand on his shoulder.

‘You too, Faerveren. Run. Run for your rooms and lock your door and don’t peek out before morning… you’ll be besieged else…’

As Faerveren made good his escape, Merenor put his friendliest smile on his face. All those elves who had told him exactly what they had thought about the whole dragon business were now headed towards him as the last member of officialdom left in the hall. 

‘Merenor.’ Hanben came to stand with his husband. ‘I rather fear there are some elves with questions wising to speak with us.’

Merenor smiled up at his beloved.

‘It really is a good job I like talking to people, isn’t it?’


	38. In Parvon's Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon and Triwathon escape to Parvon's rooms... after a fashion...

Parvon and Triwathon reached the silent corridors outside the hall before any of the other elves managed to catch them. The commander turned to his friend.

‘My quarters are further, yours are more private…’

‘Mine, then. And I have a good bottle of wine I’ve been saving.’

‘Excellent! I think after that little announcement we both need it…’

‘Indeed… oh, that king of ours!’

‘Did Arveldir ever have this trouble?’

‘Worse,’ Parvon said. ‘I’ve heard stories would make even the smile of Master Merenor fade… still, Thranduil’s in our care now… I wish I had half Arveldir’s skill with managing him…’

‘I think you do amazingly well. We all know he’s… challenging.’

Parvon halted outside his door and stared at his friend as he turned the handle.

‘Challenging? He’s utterly and completely impossible!’ He stood back for Triwathon to enter first, didn’t notice the commander had come to an abrupt, staring halt as he went on. ‘One of these days, I swear, if he were not the king…’

‘Um… Parvon… company…’

‘Yes, indeed, Master Parvon, perhaps you would enlighten us… if whom were not the king just what would you…?’

Parvon swallowed, bluffed it out as he turned to bow.

‘I would commend my king’s wonderful sense of humour and thank him for making me part of this grand jest. For, of course, the timing of your majesty’s announcement this evening seemed made to cause a smile on someone’s face…’

‘Although not your own. It is in part because of this that I have taken the liberty of paying you the honour of a visit, rather than summoning you to my quarters… Commander Triwathon, you need not stay.’

‘But you can if you like,’ Parvon said determinedly. ‘After all, I did invite you to join me in a glass of wine…’

‘Oh, you have more wine, do you? Splendid!’ the king said. ‘This is almost gone. And the Valar forfend that I interrupt your busy social life…’

It was as Thranduil waggled a raised goblet in his direction that Parvon realised the bottle he had been so carefully husbanding was set beside the king and almost empty. Triwathon touched his arm.

‘I’ll bespeak another bottle from the hall servants for you. And I’d better check in on Narunir, so shall I return in about half an hour?’

‘Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you!’

‘Make sure it is the best wine,’ Thranduil said. 

*

The wine delivered by a tentative servant, the king’s goblet refilled and his own beaker of wine ready for sipping, Parvon took a seat at his own fireside and gave Thranduil a sidelong glance.

‘Oh, do not look so worried!’ Thranduil said with a touch of asperity in his tone. ‘You were not expecting me and I suppose, given the circumstances, you might be excused your fit of pique…’

Parvon took a steadying mouthful of wine.

‘Sire, obviously you wish to discuss something with me…’

‘The announcements in the dining hall this evening.’

‘In fact, if you will pardon me, a discussion concerning that would have been better held before the release of such startling information to the populace…’

‘Very true. But through all the statements taken by our good Master Merenor, one thing recurs – a sense that in some way the attack was your fault. No, do not attempt to defend your position, there is no need… simply hear me… not consulting you first was deliberate, as was my independent exploration of the region where the dragons roamed. The village elders now cannot say you have been complicit in my decisions and, indeed, you did look as startled as any…’

‘Sire, while it is noble of you to attempt to deflect blame away from me and from Commander Triwathon, this probably was not the best way of going about it…’

The king gave an infinitesimal smile and sipped at his goblet.

‘It worked for me,’ he said. ‘No doubt you will be overwhelmed with questions from the populace; I will have the elders to a formal meeting tomorrow, where they can air their views and, no doubt, blame you and the good commander to their hearts’ content. I wish you, and Commander Triwathon to be there, too. Master Merenor will also be present, as will his documents, and I am not so blind, or foolish, or lacking in memory as my subjects imagine, sometimes; I well know how hard you and Triwathon have tried to protect the villages, in spite of the best efforts of the elders. After all, it was I who allowed them to refuse the services of hunters stationed roundabout.’

‘Sire, I… yes, they are foolish, and short-sighted, and stubborn, and I would love to point out where they were wrong, and blame them, but… the best I can hope for is an agreement it has been a confusing time. If nobody had been hurt, perhaps then I might be able to lay the blame where it belongs, but… elves have died, elflings orphaned and… it seems harsh of me to do so.’

‘True. I am not sure whether or not I made plain my plans for the New Palace?’

‘Sire, you may have done, but I think I stopped listening after you said we’d no longer support the satellite villages…’

‘Well, for once I will hold you excused. But you must have already deduced that the New Palace is no longer viable?’

‘If there are no villages to support, and if the king is not in residence, yes, I do see that. But we could have coped with the dragons if the message had come when it was meant to…’

‘It is not the dragons, Parvon. It is the reminder that this part of the forest is so near to the dwarves. Nor do I accuse them of seeking to make mischief, at least not in this instance; of course, if one finds dragons on one’s doorstep, one will try to kill them or drive them away. And the dwarves did destroy several. No, this has been a deliberation for longer than I have known of the dragon threat.’

‘I thought it was going well,’ Parvon said, his voice wistful.

‘Indeed, so did I, and had high hopes that this would be an ideal future centre of governance. However, many elves in the region of the Old Palace are reluctant to move in any case; they feel that after all the energy and effort expended as we fought to keep the forest clear and the Sacred Grove safe, and that we should stay where we are. So, sadly, the New Palace must diminish to a staging post and, perhaps, a training garrison. It is no reflection on you, or on Commander Triwathon.’

‘I appreciate that, my king. But…’ Parvon sighed. ‘We have both invested so much here…’

‘I know. Still, given your expressed wish to accompany those Silvans who wish to cross to the Undying Lands…’

‘Sire, that was my suggestion for a way you could punish me for my part in the death of the messenger…’

But Thranduil had the bit between his teeth now, and, given that Nestoril had singularly failed (refused, she had told him she refused…) to enquire as to why Parvon wished to sail, and as Master Merenor had not seemed to have anything to say on the matter, he had determined to conduct his own investigation. The arrival of Commander Triwathon from his meeting with Narunir just then, and bringing with him further supplies of wine, provided an easy way back to the topic.

‘I wonder what the commander thought of your suggestion, however…’

‘Sire?’ Triwathon queried, setting down the bottles.

‘About Parvon sailing for the Undying Lands, of course…’

Parvon cringed as Triwathon turned hurt, betrayed eyes on him before looking back at Thranduil. 

‘But, my king, Master Parvon has always said that everything he needs is here and that, like me, he would choose not to sail, I…’

‘Oh, were you unaware of this apparent change of heart, then?’

‘I was, sire… but we have not had much time for idle chat of late…’

‘Triwathon, it’s not…’ Parvon tried to interrupt, to explain. ‘It was about the… the death, that in recompense, I would… as penance… but…’

‘Do you recant, then?’ the king asked. ‘Dear me, this is a surprise… you would go as far as the Havens, I hope?’

‘If my king wished it, I would, but I fear there is a mis…’

‘Parvon! You would do that, cross the mountains, leave the New Palace in Faerveren’s hands…? Or… unless… is he going too?’

‘What? Triwathon, this is all just…’

Thranduil cleared his throat, an amused glint in his eye.

‘Well, it has been an interesting evening. And I have a meeting tomorrow at which you will both attend.’ Thranduil rose smoothly to his feet and snaffled one of the wine bottles with practised ease. ‘I will bid you goodnight, then.’


	39. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon responds to the king's revelation...

No sooner had the door closed behind the king than Triwathon turned to Parvon.

‘You would sail?’ he demanded. ‘Without me?’

‘You could come if you’d wanted. But…’

‘Don’t be a pe-channas! Why would I sail? Glorf… he will be there with his Ecthelion, and I couldn’t bear it! Anyway, I’d rather fade than sail. But that’s what I thought you always said, and now you’ve apparently changed your mind…’

Parvon gave an exhausted sigh.

‘No, Triwathon, not now. When I stood there in front of the king, all alone, with that death weighing on me and…’

_…and knowing I’d be forever just an elf who killed another elf over the elf I loved but who didn’t love me back…_

‘…I just, for a moment, felt tired of it all, as if I couldn’t do my job any more. And by offering to go along with any elves who wanted to sail but didn’t know the way, I thought that would be something I could do, give me back a bit of self-respect. But…’

‘You were going to leave me here…?’

‘Triwathon, not everything I do has you at its heart!’ He spoke more sharply than he intended and shook his head at the hurt expression on the commander’s face. ‘Well, almost. Just not quite everything,’ he admitted. ‘And perhaps that was a part of it, that every time you looked at me, you’d be reminded of that awful day, the messenger attacking you and your beloved friend dead beside you…’

‘But… have you any idea the shock hearing the king say…?’

‘Sorry. No, wait, I retract… Yes, I can see it would have startled you – but you’re blaming the wrong person; if Thranduil hadn’t said anything…’

‘You wouldn’t have told me? You’d just have left?’

‘No, Triw, you’re not hearing me!’ Exasperated, Parvon tried again. ‘You don’t understand…! What could I have said to you? That in a moment of despair I thought of the worst possible punishment for myself and offered it to the king, but that once I’d said it, I realised how over-dramatic it had sounded? But what about once the king cleared my name? There was no need to say anything, because I wasn’t going to be made to do any sort of penance… so if I’d said, incidentally, I told Thranduil he could send me to the Undying Lands, but now he won’t have to, how would that have sounded? Only now you’re accusing me of… well, what are you accusing me of? And why are you so upset about it? I’m not that interesting, remember?’

‘Ai, Parvon! Are you going to drag that up every time…?’

‘Every time you accuse me of doing something to hurt you when I haven’t, yes, probably. If that’s what it takes. We’re friends, Triw, that’s all, you keep making it abundantly clear that’s all we’ll ever be, and so don’t expect me to treat you with the courtesy due a lover. I know you’re not, so don’t worry about me getting any wrong ideas…’

_… but do you know how difficult it is not to sometimes hope? Especially when you insist on being jealous and hurt over things that are simply not something a friend should be bothered about…_

‘I…can’t believe you would accuse…’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything. Triwathon, I’m _tired_. After tonight, the king’s announcement… and thinking about tomorrow, when I’ll have all the questions coming at me and no support…’

‘Not quite no support. I…’ Triwathon sighed, shaking his head. ‘Well, after all, we’re both getting the blame, so we should stand and face it together.’

‘I am grateful. Triw, can you – could you – try to forget Thranduil breaking into my rooms tonight? Can we pretend he was never here, and just…we had a falling out recently and it was awful. I don’t want another.’

_… I just want my friend back..._

‘Parvon, it’s… just it was a shock. And to hear it from the Elvenking…’

‘As if he isn’t playing enough games with our lives as it is. Triwathon, we’ve tomorrow to get through. Here. Drink with me, to the vagaries of kings and the hard lot of those who have to serve under them.’

Finally, Triwathon relaxed with a laugh that was only a little forced. ‘Yes, it is one of Thranduil’s games and we are all pieces on his game board at present. Very well, Parvon; you did not mean it when you said you would sail, and that is an end to it.’

Parvon tilted his head and compressed his lips to prevent himself from speaking. Triwathon still didn’t understand; the moment when he told Thranduil he would sail was exactly the moment that he had meant it, but to go over old ground again… he didn’t have the energy.

‘Good,’ he said instead. ‘Now, how are we going to counter Thranduil’s announcement?’

‘What about if we told everyone the king was drunk and didn’t mean it? Do you think they’d believe it?’

Triwathon’s question made Parvon smile, not least from relief that the touchy subject of sailing had been dropped, finally.

‘We could hope,’ he said. ‘But then, have you ever seen our king drunk?’

‘No, never. That is, I don’t think so… he always seems perfectly sober…’

‘And so he does, even with a half dozen empty wine bottles scattered around his seat… nobody would be able to tell, anyway. So nobody would believe it… I think, the best way to counter any questions, is to say exactly the same thing, every time; that the Palace Office, and the Garrison, will fulfil the Elvenking’s orders to the best of their ability for that is their purpose.’

‘That’s going to make us even less popular!’

‘I am sure it will.’

Triwathon emptied his wine cup and set it down.

‘I think I ought to get back to the garrison; Narunir is bound to have questions… I think they all will… at least there you have only one person in your office…’

‘Yes, and how many score in the palace generally? No, you go, sort out your guards, reassure them that Thranduil is bound to have work for them…’

‘Goodnight, then. And, about earlier…?’ Triwathon paused. Parvon, expecting an apology finally to come, prepared a gracious response, but instead, his friend shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t sail… would you…?’

Parvon allowed some of his frustration to show in his voice.

‘I told you, Triw; it was to offer penance; you’ve no idea how intimidating our king can be when it suits him…’

‘Well, I’ve seen him in action once or twice… Goodnight.’

Parvon closed the door with a nod and a smile and drained his goblet, hoping that Triwathon hadn’t noticed he’d actually evaded the question. Nights like this, the thought of sailing and beginning anew in the Undying Lands actually seemed quite appealing.


	40. Breakfast Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the respective merits of toast vs bread are discussed...

Those determined elves whose questions hadn’t been satisfactorily answered by Masters Merenor and Hanben presented themselves early at the Palace Office to find no answers there either; a note pinned to the door decreed the office closed until after the king’s audience with the village elders. The same information was placed on all the boards throughout the palace, and so a steady stream of disgruntled elves was wandering through the corridors while, behind the locked doors of Master Parvon’s rooms, yet another breakfast meeting was taking place.

Faerveren had arrived breathless with scared eyes.

‘There are elves everywhere!’ he said, perhaps exaggerating just a little. ‘I am so glad you sent word last night, Master Parvon, and suggested I did not put on my robes of duty yet! I do not think I could have faced the office today!’

‘With everyone else called to the meeting, it did not seem fair. Not that you are not perfectly able, Faerveren,’ Parvon said. ‘But nobody deserves to face hordes of annoyed elves alone.’

‘Especially not before breakfast,’ Merenor said from the corner where he and Hanben had placed themselves. ‘Are we all here now?’

‘We await Commander Triwathon. An invitation was extended to Lord Arveldir and Master Erestor, but was declined; Arveldir said he did not feel himself sufficiently embroiled in events to leave his husband’s side…’

‘Very wise of him,’ Merenor said. ‘Shall I bespeak the meal?’

Triwathon arriving at the same time as the servants bearing food, the company was soon settled to discuss their breakfast.

‘There is no point discussing anything else at present,’ Parvon said. ‘But I thought, to gather before the meeting, to share the meal and try not to worry about what our king will do next…’

‘And it affords some shelter for my grandson, for which I am very grateful,’ Merenor said, smiling. ‘I’m going to walk him to the elfling’s study room later, so that Canadion and Thiriston can bear him company…’

‘Daerada, it is very kind, but I’m sure I can cope; all I have to say is, nothing will be decided until after the meeting and both the garrison and the Palace Office will, of course, follow the orders of the king to their utmost…’ He gave an anxious smile. ‘Only I am glad I do not have to say it before breakfast.’

Gentle, general laughter eased the tension that had unaccountably built in the room. Merenor looked across at Triwathon and spoke as if without thinking.

‘You’re looking a little on edge, Commander – is all well? Apart from the disaster our king has just landed on top of you, that is?’

‘Is that not enough?’ Triwathon tried to smile. ‘I am tired, my reverie was hardly easy, as I am sure was the case for others of us. Our future here utterly demolished, elves left without safe harbour, their careers ruined to the point where they see no hope in staying… and…’ He broke off abruptly. ‘My concern should be restricted to the garrison’s business, I know. But I have… friends, who are entangled in the king’s notions…’

‘Ah. I’m sure many elves will be disrupted, even those who were simply minding their own business and working in the palace. But upheaval has visited the kingdom before, and we have readjusted.’ Merenor smiled with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. ‘And once this meeting is over and done with, at least we can all get on with finding working solutions to the king’s demands.’

Triwathon nodded and tried to retreat into the background of discussions. It was true that he had not slept well. But weaving in and out of his thoughts all night had been the fear – the dread – that Thranduil might actually have held Parvon to his rash suggestion and insisted he sail. And then, last evening, to have Parvon say the things he had… to accuse him, almost, of jealousy, to point out what they both knew so well, that they were only friends… why did it bother him so much? And, oh, the sting when Parvon had said not everything he did had Triwathon at its centre, well, he knew that, but… somehow, unexpectedly, the remark had smarted and burned and kept him from rest… almost it was akin to the hurt he had felt whenever Glorfindel had left, and that was just… just impossible… No, it must be simply that they had relied on each other so much, Commander and Chief Advisor, each wielding power and authority to keep the New Palace running smoothly, and all this – the disaster of the dragons and not keeping people safe… it was both their responsibilities, and…

He became aware of a waiting silence. Guessing he had been asked something, he shook his head.

‘That is not so easy a question as it might seem,’ he said, playing for time. 

Master Merenor twinkled at him, waving a toasting fork. ‘Indeed, Commander, for while more toast would undoubtedly assuage your appetite, it will take a little longer than passing you the untoasted bread would, but there is something satisfying in the crunch of toast, and so…’

‘But you see, the excellent blackberry paste that you brought as a treat for us is better on toast, Daerada,’ Faerveren said. ‘And it may be that the commander does not quite know how drippy it might be on soft bread…’

Parvon shook his head, tried to restore order.

‘Yes, it is indeed momentous! Stop teasing, if you please! Commander Triwathon has many matters weighing upon him, and I doubt it was breakfast that kept all his concentration! Toast, Merenor, Triwathon prefers toast at breakfast…’

‘One might wonder how you know that, Master Parvon…’

‘Simply because there have been many, many breakfast meetings held in these rooms, quite often with Master Faerveren and Captain Narunir present as well as the commander, Master Merenor…’ he turned to Triwathon. ‘My friend, I, too, spent a wakeful night. But it is useless to ponder what will happen at the meeting; the king is present, there are far too many possibilities to cover them all.’

Triwathon nodded, suddenly unable to speak for a huge lump in his throat, not really knowing why he felt suddenly so emotional. Surely not just because Parvon knew his breakfast preferences? No, of course not, more likely it was simply tiredness, anxiety… and they were staring at him again…

Parvon broke the impasse with a sigh, took from Merenor the plate he’d just offered to Triwathon and himself passed it over.

‘Toast, Triw. With butter. Here’s the honey, help yourself. Now, Masters Merenor and Hanben, has the king, by any chance, let slip any hints of matters that are going to cause headaches for me later? If so, a little forewarning would be very much appreciated…’

Merenor, now a little chastened, exchanged glances with his spouse. Hanben nodded.

‘Yes, my rascal, I think it is better said here.’

Parvon sat more upright. Triwathon stopped eating.

‘So there is something?’ Parvon said. ‘I knew there would be…’

‘Mind, I tricked the information out of his majesty and he may well have decided against it. But he said something about… restructuring, I suppose you could say…’

‘Thranduil’s already told me the New Palace isn’t viable,’ Parvon said with a sigh. ‘If that’s all…’

‘Well, mostly. Except he said he’d heard a rumour, Master Parvon, that you had expressed an interest in taking ship…’

Faerveren gasped. Parvon squeezed his eyes closed and counted silently to five.

‘It was not a rumour…’

‘Oh, no!’ Faerveren exclaimed. ‘That is…’

‘…not a rumour he heard, for I told him myself. I offered to go because I had been involved in the death of the messenger and at the time I spoke to our king, I thought I would be found culpable, if not responsible, and thought that to offer to sail would show how deeply I regretted the death… but I did so knowing that his majesty might well expect me to go through with it, and I was never more glad than when I was cleared of blame. But if our king said he’d heard a rumour, Master Merenor, then it was he started it.’ He turned to Faerveren who was still looking shocked. ‘Be easy, Faerveren. I was not commanded to set off for the Havens, my offer was met by amused tolerance…’ He took a breath. ‘If I were able, I would continue on here and have things as ever they were. But I doubt that will be possible, not now. Too much have changed for that.’


	41. Audience with the Elders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil holds audience...

The Throne Room of the New Palace was by no means as vastly impressive as that of the Old Palace, but it had no need to be; any hall inhabited by Thranduil, installed on an antler-framed throne atop even a small flight of step, was instantly transformed into the most awe-inspiring and solemn of places. Lit as it was by strategically placed wall sconces and lantern stands, the impression was one of a king who glittered with jewels and magnificence from his silvered winter crown to his elegant grey suede boots. Swathed in a magnificent robe of office, gems sparking fire from the rings on his hands, he was, if anything, more impressive in this setting than in the larger Hall of Audience in the Old Palace; here, he was more visible, somehow.

It was not to be wondered at, therefore, that when the village elders were escorted into the Royal Presence and shown where to stand by the guards, they swallowed and shivered, for the moment awed and humbled, bowing and trying to hide their trembling once told to rise.

Behind and to either side of the throne were ranged members of the King’s Office and the Palace Office – all of them, even Faerveren – accompanied by Commander Triwathon and Captain Narunir. Beside them, several Galadhrim stood like ethereal spirits, the illusion of their unreality only highlighted by the more solid presence of Lord Elrohir and his spouse Rusdir next to them.

Thranduil waited for just long enough for the elders to show signs of unease before shifting slightly in his seat and indicating the first elf.

‘You,’ he said. ‘The elder of Oak Village. Begin.’

The ellon swallowed, raised a defiant chin.

‘We were attacked from the skies. The village burned, elves were snatched away screaming… and the garrison did nothing! We were under attack for over an hour before…’

‘Master Merenor, how long does it take, on foot, to get from the garrison to Oak Village?’

‘Sire.’ Merenor stood and bowed, produced a sheet of paper and glanced at them. ‘In the canopy, under ideal conditions, an hour and part of an hour. In the dark, with dragons preventing canopy running, more like to two hours.’

Thranduil acknowledge the information with a lift of his hand.

‘Oak. Continue.’

‘We lost friends, family, our homes, we… and we did not deserve… and there was no help…’

‘Commander? Oak Village?’

Triwathon rose to his feet and came to bow to the king.

‘Sire, Oak Village was relieved by a company led by Captain Hannith. Volunteers with her were Captain Rusdir and Lord Elrohir. It was difficult, I understand, to persuade some of the inhabitants to leave…’

The elf turned on the commander.

‘And is that all you have to say for yourself? Stuck all the way out here, ignoring the fact that the villages were under attack, sending… sending interlopers and a lesser company out to threaten us out of our…’

‘Enough,’ Thranduil said, his languid voice drifting like an icy wind across the throne room. ‘Elder, be silent lest you offend more than you already have. Do you forget how hard you petitioned to settle more than a league and a half from the palace? Do you not recall how you were offered a guard flet close by? A hunter troop stationed within reach of all three villages? Has it escaped you that at every touch and turn you have insisted on making Commander Triwathon’s job impossible?’

‘My king, I… that is not… I…’

‘And have you also forgotten that I summoned you here so that you could place before me the questions of those formerly in your care? This you have yet to do. You.’ Thranduil pointed towards the next village representative in line. ‘Perhaps it is too soon for the displaced elves to have properly articulated their questions. But speak. I am more interested in how your villagers took the news that they will be returning to the Old Palace.’

‘Sire.’ The elleth addressed gave a respectful bow. ‘I am Taranith, of Beech Village. My brother Arastor was taken by one of the dragons, but survived. He – pardon me, I know it is not what you have commanded of me – he wished me to express his grateful thanks to those elves who rescued him and bore him to safety. His wife was there, dead, and the elves tidied her respectfully, and then one sat with his friend who was waiting for the Lord of the Halls of Mandos… he – my brother says they were kind.’

Thranduil flickered fingers towards Triwathon, who again came forward.

‘Captains Canadion and Thiriston, staying as guests, volunteered to help. It was they assisted Arastor to the New Palace.’

‘Noted. Continue, Taranith.’

‘Your majesty, of course my friends are distressed and saddened to lose their homes. But they are loyal elves, sire, and will obey your commands. For myself, I am grateful for the care and shelter we have had, and that there are places waiting for us. When he is well, I think my brother will support my authority with the people, if it is needed.’ She took a breath. ‘It was asked of me… they wish to know… will they be able to return, not to live, but to see where their loved ones were placed? Or is the area to be forever untrod?’

Parvon, watching, thought Thranduil hesitated for a heartbeat, as if this was not what he had been expecting. But the king paused only briefly before replying.

‘The region will be made safe, the trees nurtured and comforted, and once healing has begun in the forest, then yes, those who wish it may return to walk the paths. Only it will be a place of memory, not of dwelling, in honour of the dead.’

‘My king is most generous. Many will be set at ease by this news.’

‘And you?’ Thranduil’s pointing finger moved along to the last elf in line. ‘Have your villagers formed questions fit to repeat, yet?’

‘I am Edemes of Beech Village. My people were not happy to be told to leave, either.’ The elleth paused, as if trying to phrase things so she would avoid Thranduil’s ire. ‘But the guard were trying to help. Many of my villagers are greatly distressed at what they perceive as interference in their way of life and wished me to ask whether or not our king has listened too well to the advice of those whose jobs are made harder with us to care for… but I am sure that is not the case…’

‘No, indeed,’ Thranduil said, glancing at his fingernails as if bored, bored, bored by it all. ‘For them to make such an allegation would be most unwise, and I am sure your villagers are simply confused, it must have been a very confusing time for them… Very well.’ He dropped his hands to the arms of his throne and sat more upright. ‘Go back to your people, all of you. Tell them they can come to the Old Palace and resettle, perhaps even in talain, or they could sail, or they can leave the protection of their Elvenking should those suggestions not suit their whims. But they will not live in Beech, Oak, or Elm Villages ever again. You are to find some who are willing to leave now, uninjured, if possible, entire families, if there are such, to be first to return. As such, they will make the journey by cart, and with full protection on the way. Subsequent convoys will most likely be on foot, but with the protection of the guard. Give the names of those you choose to go first to my Palace Office advisors before sunset tomorrow. You may go.’

The elders bowed and retreated in as much haste as was dignified. Once the throne room was free of them, Thranduil sighed.

‘Very well. Parvon, Triwathon, no doubt you have many questions. Captain Rusdir, Lord Elrohir, we thank you for your attendance. And your Galadhrim guests, we are grateful for the aid you gave to our villagers, reluctant to accept though they were.’

‘Sire.’ Rusdir stood before the king and bowed. ‘I wished to ask – concerning my nephews… Elrohir and I are all the family they have, now. I – we – would like to take them back with us, to Imladris. The young ones have said they would like it. It is a very different place now that Lord Elrond has sailed. Of course, if ever they are unhappy, we will bring them home again… but…’

‘Peace, Rusdir. They are your family now, and if they wish to be with you, then I will release them from the forest with my blessing. Only remember, they are Silvan, and they will always have a home here, should they wish it. As do you, and your spouse.’

‘Sire, we are grateful. May I ask…? Our Galadhrim friends wish to make a suggestion…’

‘Very well.’

Rusdir stepped back and Lumormen approached and bowed to the king.

‘Our forest, and your forest, we are neighbours, great king,’ he began. ‘And we of the Galadhrim wish to offer our aid, such as it is, to your damaged regions. We would use our craft and skill to help repair the wounds to the forest caused by fire. For it seems to us, that the trees here were young, and they may well recover. It is small service, but we would do it well.’

‘We will be most pleased to accept your help.’ Thranduil said. ‘Arrange matters with Commander Triwathon – he intends to send out a working party to begin to assess the damage and dismantle the village infrastructure. Working together would benefit all parties. Very well. Dismissed, everyone, except Triwathon, Narunir, Parvon and Faerveren. Good.’

The throne room being cleared of all except the three named, Thranduil descended from his throne. Faerveren looked towards the exit as if wishing he could have left, too, and the king noted the direction of his gaze with a private smile.

‘Peace, all of you. I wish only to thank you and to give further instructions. Triwathon, I want you to oversee the Galadhrim efforts in the forest yourself, thus freeing Narunir and Hannith for escort duties…’

‘Sire?’

‘All elves being relocated to the Old Palace will have a guard escort. Thus when comes the turn of those who are unwilling to leave, they will not realise the guard is there to counter any attempts at rebellion. Besides, it will simply look as if we wish to reassure them they are safe.’

It didn’t quite answer Triwathon’s concerns, but he was unable to find a way to express what really was bothering him.

‘Parvon, you will manage the New Palace Office alone for a time. I wish Faerveren to return to the Old Palace with us, if you can spare him. And Merenor and Hanben at the same time.’

‘Then of course I can spare Faerveren.’ Parvon smiled warmly at his underscribe. ‘He has worked hard and served exceptionally well. Family time is important. Enjoy your downtime, Faerveren.’

‘Thank you, Master Parvon! I have… it has been interesting, recently, but I think a change would be nice.’

‘I shall work you, Faerveren, never fear,’ Thranduil said. ‘Parvon, I wish to have all the homeless elves settled back in the Old Palace as soon as can be, with due patience for their healing, of course. The escort guards who accompany each convoy will not return, thus creating a sort of natural attrition in the garrison here, Commander. My intent is that you be left with one company, rather than three, by the time the restoration of the forest is complete. Thus you will not have the personnel to support the villages and it is my hope they will begin to consider a return to inside the perimeter around the Old Palace without excessive prompting… yes, I know, it is harsh, these are their homes… but they would not let us put processes in place to keep them safe and so they must learn to live in insecurity. And with fewer elves to worry about, your own workload will diminish, Master Parvon. Do you understand’

‘I think so, sire,’ Parvon said slowly. But… I would rather someone else told Healer Mae, if there happens that anyone injured in the villages were injured…’

Thranduil sighed.

‘Yes, indeed… very well, in dire circumstances, Healer Mae can attend the desperately injured. But that is all. Looking forward, I intend that the New Palace be disbanded after next year’s Night of the Names. That gives you almost an entire year to arrange and implement the required procedures. I realise that elves will be attached to this area until those they have laid to rest are absorbed into their trees, and I expect visitors will come from Imladris to see where their seneschal is resting. But even so, a year is plenty of time.’ The king allowed his face to relax into something near to a smile. ‘There. That was not so very bad, was it?’

Parvon glanced around his friends. Triwathon’s expression was frozen, immobile. Narunir looked as if he had taken a body-blow, and Faerveren was blinking and gulping as if trying not to cry. They were his people, his responsibility, and he wasn’t going to let even his king get away with ruining their lives in so light a manner.

He took a breath, aware he was beginning to shake.

‘No, sire,’ he said. ‘In fact, it is far worse than expected. While we appreciate that you noted our service in the face of the elders’ complaints, this – taking away all we have worked towards – it is… shocking…’

‘Have I not worked to the same end?’ Thranduil enquired mildly, not yet annoyed, simply mystified.

‘Yes, sire, that is true, I suppose,’ Parvon replied. ‘But wherever you are, you are the Elvenking. Commander Triwathon and Captain Narunir’s garrison is here; there are commanders and captains already in your majesty’s Old Palace, will they be expected to simply take on lesser roles? Away from the New Palace, none of my recent work is of relevance to the King’s Office and I would be just another scribe. My work, my life, was here, and…’

‘But it was not always so. You will find other tasks, Parvon. Or I will find them for you. I seem to recall you offered to act as escort for any who would sail…’And now Thranduil’s voice became full of silken menace. ‘Be assured, that opportunity will still be open to you…’

Parvon gritted his teeth.

‘My king is most generous,’ he said.

‘Yes, indeed,’ the king replied. ‘Now, you all have work to do, I think. Let me not impede your going.’


	42. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon, Triwathon and Narunir discuss what to do next...

‘Well, you heard our king,’ Parvon said with weary bitterness once they had left the Royal Presence. ‘We have things to do.’

‘Yes, I have to pack, and… oh. You did not mean that, did you, Master Parvon? I am sorry, it is just…’

Parvon shook his head, settling his temper.

‘It’s all right, Faerveren. And you have worked hard, and taken on duties that never should have been expected of you, and you deserve a little time with your people. But no, I meant, those of us who need to implement his majesty’s plans for the New Palace. I suggest a planning session of our own, garrison and office…’

‘Good idea,’ Triwathon said. ‘And I suggest we hold it in my rooms in the garrison. That way, Parvon, you won’t be interrupted by elves knocking on your door to say, yes, they know it’s on the information boards, but what does it really mean…?’

‘That would be helpful, certainly.’

‘Should I go back to the office, Master Parvon?’ Faerveren asked, keen to be helpful after his slip. ‘If people come, I can explain what the boards say, at least.’

‘If you would, thank you. Do keep to what the boards already say, though; if anything else comes up, deflect them until later.’

‘Yes, Master Parvon. Besides, I do not think the king will leave at once, will he?’

Parvon sighed. ‘One can hope… but no, I think he will want to see his instructions beginning to be followed at least. So. I will see you later, Faerveren. Commander Triwathon – lead on.’

*

Once settled in Triwathon’s large sitting room, Parvon began to unclench his knotted shoulders. Narunir had questions, but he directed them at Triwathon, and listening to the commander deconstructing what the king’s orders meant for the garrison somehow gave Parvon a breathing space; so often, lately, it had been him talking to his people, with Triwathon listening in and it was reassuring to hear someone else have ideas and issue orders.

‘Yes, so his majesty thinks I have nothing better to do than dance around the Galadhrim helpers,’ Triwathon was saying. ‘We all know this is not so, his royal self included. But today I need to stay close to home, I think. Narunir, I want you to lead an advance party to retrieve the obviously intrusive things; disassemble the water storage systems – you may need to consult Master Hanben, they are his design – and bring them away. If any elves were to try to forget their king’s orders, the lack of stored water will make it a little more difficult. Tomorrow we will begin to clear the talain, making sure records are kept of which items come from where, in case anyone wishes to claim their belongings… I know, we should not get attached to material things, but, well, we all know how there’s nothing quite like one’s own bedroll, for example… Were Master Hanben to suggest going with you, that will be acceptable, probably quite useful, in fact, but only him… the area is still generally out of bounds.’

‘Shall I take from my own company, sir, or ask for volunteers across the garrison?’

‘Make it just your people, Narunir, and make sure you go out as soon as you can today. Once you’ve done your first pass, then I’ll get involved with my company and the Galadhrim… we don’t know how long they’ll be here, so we should assume they’ll want to get started… that’s a point, actually; Master Parvon, have you heard anything about when Lord Arveldir and his spouse intend returning to Imladris?’

‘It all depends on the health of Master Erestor, I think. Certainly, Lord Arveldir is keen to be home, and I think that others of the party are also eager to leave. Of course, the Galadhrim may not feel the need to return at the same time, but…’ He paused as Triwathon tried to disguise a sigh. ‘Yes, I know, how are we to follow the king’s orders when we are dependent on others before we can fulfil them? Still, we must do what we can. Commander, if I set aside a room for any salvaged items, will that help?’

‘It will. And while you still have his services, could you ask Master Faerveren to itemise everything brought in?’

‘Of course. It’s the sort of nice, quiet work he likes.’

‘Thank you. Is there anything you might need the garrison’s help with, Master Parvon?’

‘Once personal belongings start to come in, one of your people to help Master Faerveren would be useful, I think. Otherwise, well, I am tempted to ask for a couple of fully armed warriors to guard the doors of the Palace Office…’

Triwathon grinned. ‘I don’t blame you, mellon-nin! Well, if that’s all…?’

‘For the moment, yes. And my thanks; it’s been useful to talk away from my office for a change. I’ll pay a visit to Healer Maereth, I think, see how she’s getting on.’

‘Good idea. Give her my greetings, will you?’

*

Parvon smiled to himself as he made his way to Maereth’s healing rooms; it had been good to see Triwathon giving orders again, and he wondered how much some of the commander’s recent uncertainties had been from simply having no firm instructions to follow, no specific orders to give. Certainly his air had been more decisive, his tone firmer, more commanding. Perhaps, too, the prospect of being busy with the king’s wishes would help Triwathon’s grief, keeping him busy and giving him less time to dwell on both his personal loss and the wider losses of the settlements… of course, such things took their own time, Parvon knew, but for his friend’s wellbeing, at least, he felt a little more hopeful.

‘Master Parvon! You are well, I hope?’ Mae said, coming out from behind her desk with a smile that wasn’t completely easy.

‘Yes, I am well. I wanted to see how you are, and how your charges are now?’

‘That’s kind. Well, as for me, and Othwen, we are busy, but it is not as bad as it was. We have perhaps a dozen elves here now, and several coming in daily for treatment. The fact is, some could leave, but they not had rooms assigned yet, and…’

‘And that is one of my jobs, and I am afraid I have given it no thought…! I am sorry, Maereth!’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, smiling softly. ‘Really, they are content to be here… once they leave, they will have to face the fact that their lives have changed forever.’

‘I’ll see to it. If you can give me a list of how many elves are ready, whether they have kin, or…’ he broke off, for Maereth was shaking her head and her eyes had grown sad. ‘Of course, if they had kin, they would also have somewhere to go, would they not?’

‘Apart from one vowed couple, and he is more injured than she, so wants to stay anyway until her fëa-mate is recovered… So, single quarters for three when you can, and two more in a day or so.’

‘Of course. And… I do not know if anyone has brought you news from this morning’s audience with the king, yet?’

‘No, indeed, they have not. If there is anything that concerns my halls, or my charges, we had better discuss it privately. Over tea, perhaps.’

*

‘Before we start,’ Parvon began, ‘I want to ask how Erestor is…’

‘You could ask Erestor,’ Maereth suggested.

‘I could – if I could get past Arveldir… who is my friend, and who is acting only in the best interests of his husband, I know, but…’

But Parvon had begun to wonder if Arveldir was perhaps using his husband’s health as an excuse to steer clear of the Palace Office now the king was here… he couldn’t blame him, of course. Arveldir had been Thranduil’s Chief Advisor for so long that it would be all too easy for him to find himself embroiled in the affairs of Eryn Lasgalen almost without realising it…

‘Well. If you ask me, formally, as advisor to the king, how long before our guest from Imladris is well enough to leave, then I can answer, officially, that in my opinion, while he is recovered enough to walk short distances without undue discomfort, it would be unadvisable for him to begin a long journey on horseback for at least another two weeks. Does that help?’

‘Yes, Healer, that is very useful information.’

‘No doubt, being a stubborn and determined person, Master Erestor will swear he is fit to ride already, if asked. But the fact is that it would not do him any good at all and it would be a good idea to talk him out of leaving, if he should suggest it.’

‘Noted, Mae. I happen to know Arveldir is keen to leave; if you mention your concerns to him…’

‘Ah, I see, you are actually hoping they will stay!’ Maereth said. ‘Do I wish to know why?’

‘I was trying to get an unbiased opinion, that’s all. And it really has nothing to do with Erestor, I suppose; assuming that all our guests from Imladris will want to leave together, and that the Galadhrim have offered to help restore the forest, I wanted some idea of how long we will have their services…’

‘Now I understand… I think. Well, that is kind of them… I am not quite sure about Galadhrim, somehow… we are all wood-elves, but they are so different from us…’

‘That’s true. But that may sometimes be a good thing, perhaps. Anyway, moving on…’

‘There is more?’

‘Quite a lot more, Mae, and… and it is not good news, not for me, at least. I do not know how you will feel… but… his majesty is no longer considering the New Palace as his permanent court…’

‘Oh… that is… not what I thought you were going to say. You see, Nestoril spent a little time with us – me and Othwen, and she told me, privately, that this was the king’s wish. So I am forewarned… and it is sad, especially for you, and dear Commander Triwathon, who have made this place your own… as for me, I think I will like going back to being just one healer amongst many; I do not like to put myself forward, you know.’

‘I… good, I’m glad not to have given terrible news to you. It does mean we have to begin moving people out… I think you are to have a proper, formal letter outlining the immediate plans… but… the garrison also is going to diminish, and so we will no longer be able to offer aid to the villages between here and the Old Palace. The king was quite insistent, and I am sure he has no idea how difficult it is going to be… but he has said, if there are any in extreme need of healing, you may attend them. But that is to be the extent of our help. Of course, I would make sure you had an escort if such were to happen…’

‘This is news! I am not sure I like this plan…’

‘Well, if you want to tell the king, Mae, I won’t stop you, but…’

‘Oh, dear, no! I shall just have to keep my opinions to myself!’

‘That sounds like a very good idea,’ Parvon said, remembering the king’s response when he’d spoken his mind to his majesty. ‘I think I’ll probably do the same, in future.’


	43. A New Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon finds his days filled with work in the woods...

Captain Narunir being glad of an excuse to escape the fractured atmosphere of the palace and keen to be working, he soon had his company fully occupied at Oak Village. They began by deconstructing the modern trappings that the traditionalist elves had insisted on having with them; water tanks, washing cascades, mechanical washtubs all were stripped down, and the talain made safe. It was dirty work, with ash and charcoal dust clinging to every surface, the trees bearing darkened patches of scorched bark. The task took them two days, with Triwathon and his company joining them on the second day to clear the talain of all personal belongings and bag them up.

‘What now, Commander?’ Narunir asked as they began the task of loading a narrow wagon with the salvage. 

‘Get these things back to the palace, and tomorrow, your company can make a start on Elm, same process, strip out the contraptions first and then we’ll join you once that’s done to help with any surviving belongings.’

Before they had quite finished loading the wagon, one of the Galadhrim emerged from the forest to bow to Triwathon.

‘Lumormen,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘During the journey from Imladris, I was troubled by visions of fire in your forest. Thus it seems good to me, to purge the memories of both vision and reality by service to your trees.’

‘We are grateful,’ the commander said. ‘But I was not expecting you today; I thought arrangements were that my company escort you and your friends here in the morning…?’

‘Ah, yes. My companions having decided I should be nominally in charge, and as it was known that you were working in the forest today, it was thought I should come out alone first to see for myself what is needed. So sad about your trees, so many of them just little more than saplings, really… but we will do what we may. Perhaps you will show me around?’

‘Yes, gladly. Let me just give Captain Narunir his orders, and I will be at your disposal.’

Since it was already turning towards dusk, Triwathon sent his own troop back with Narunir and his company. ‘Stand down for the day; we’ll probably be back here in the morning to finish clearing the talain while Captain Narunir’s command is on deconstruction duty at Elm. Dismissed.’

Waving them off, he went in search of Lumormen and found him staring at the void where once a water tank had sat. The Galadhrim looked sad, disappointed, almost, as he started at the empty place.

‘What was here?’ he asked. ‘It smells… mechanical.’

‘It was a storage tank for water. The elves here adopted some of the modern plumbing you will have seen in the palace – washing cascades, that sort of thing…’

‘I have encountered such devices in the New Palace, yes, quite alarming in some ways… how odd that the elves who lived here bewail the loss of their natural lifestyle, and yet they encumber themselves with such trappings…and yet to hear them speak, it is as if they were the original inhabitants of the wilderness…’

‘That struck me, too. Our first king, Oropher, he was keen for us to live as simply and naturally as we could. Personally, I think there’s nothing like a hot wash in the cascade after a long day’s duty, but no, it’s not natural or simple…’ he sighed. The fact was, he liked the modern trappings Lumormen seemed to so despise, many of which had been invented and installed by Master Hanben who was as traditional an elf as you could wish in many ways... ‘Well, come, let me show you what we’ve done towards restoration so far…’

Although Triwathon began by leading the way, offering explanations and descriptions, soon Lumormen drew ahead so that the commander perforce must follow, answering any questions that were asked rather than volunteering information. Such queries as came were odd, to his mind; nothing about the people of the village, but all about the trees, how had they felt about being used for habitation, had they been consulted first, how had they liked having their watercourses disrupted and strange plumbing all around them… 

‘These are not questions a commander of the guard can answer, I am afraid,’ he said after the third enquiry into whether the trees minded the noise of mechanical washtubs.

‘Of course. Perhaps I had better ask the trees themselves, then,’ Lumormen countered.

Triwathon had never really spent time in company with Galadhrim before; not an individual, at least, not without other persons present, and as he watched the elegant, serene figure moving from tree to tree he realised there was something about Lumormen he found somehow disconcerting… as if being calm and controlled in the face of all this destruction was improper, disrespectful. But as they progressed around the village, he realised it was more the control of one whose emotions might otherwise spill out…

‘What’s bothering you most about this?’ he asked abruptly.

Lumormen turned curious eyes towards him.

‘In what way, Commander?’

‘Well, you seem very distressed by everything… that is, I mean, you don’t know these trees, and… yes, I’ve been saddened by it myself, but I’ve seen it so often now the shock’s worn off, perhaps, and I…’

‘You have wept, in fact, for the forest, yes, they tell me so. No, my distress is more… to think that your people would settle without asking the trees if they may, and without your king ensuring the forest was happy for such devices as washing cascades to be brought into its heart… I…’ Lumormen shook his head. ‘It is not my affair, of course, but I am distressed, nevertheless.’

‘There was always controversy about these settlements,’ Triwathon said. ‘But ultimately, I am here to serve the king and his people…’

‘Yet you have much blame from some of those who lived here. So it is fair to assume you were not in support of their choices.’

‘It’s not for me to say, really.’

‘Oh, I do not disapprove of you, Commander, not at all… may we go up into one of these talain, now they are empty? This tree welcomes us into its canopy.’

‘All right, if it pleases you. Would you care to lead?’

‘This is your forest, Commander; after you.’

Triwathon laid his hand on the scorched bark of the tree, sending a greeting into it before beginning to climb. The elves who had lived here had ascended and descended by way of a ladder, the remains of which could be seen just beneath the base of the flet… yet another thing for Lumormen to disapprove of, he thought to himself as he swung onto the platform and rested his palm against the central trunk.

‘There were elflings here,’ he said as Lumormen appeared after him. ‘In such cases it is usual to have ladders to help…’

‘Even we use ladders in fair Lothlorien,’ Lumormen said. ‘Do not, I beg, think badly of me simply because I do not like to see any tree disrespected…’

‘No, I… it is more, I feel the need to defend my people, even when I do not really want to, and that…’

‘I understand.’ Lumormen looked up into the stark branches of the tree. ‘And our host does not mind, has never minded… and so it wishes for me not to mind on its behalf. This tree will recover, I feel. It will grow again after its winter sleep. Come, tell me what you sense from it…?’

Lumormen gestured and Triwathon, after a moment of wondering what the Galadhrim meant, gathered he was intended to put his hands against the bark and try to read the tree’s mood. It took him a moment to distance himself enough from the thoughts running through his head to connect properly with the lifeforce of the tree.

‘Yes… the tree is strong enough… but weary…’

‘Waiting for its winter sleep; the fire disturbed it, of course.’ Lumormen had placed his own hands against the bark. ‘And through the tree, I feel your lifeforce, Commander. Do you sense me, also?’  
‘I…’ It wasn’t something Triwathon had ever tried, hadn’t even thought of because, really, why would you? 

Lumormen covered Triwathon’s hand with his own and looked at him with luminous eyes. 

‘They say the best way to know the forest is to know the elf that lives there… I would learn you, Commander, I can see the there is a weight upon your shoulders and I would lift it, if you will let me…’

The Galadhrim increased the pressure of his fingers and stepped gently towards Triwathon, and any thought he had that perhaps he was misreading Lumormen’s words or actions evaporated as the elf smiled tentatively.

‘There is space here, it is safe, we are private…’

‘It’s kind of you. But I have a good friend or two back at the New Palace, if I need someone to talk to.’

‘Oh, I didn’t really have talking in mind…’

There it was, then; a definite invitation…

…and Lumormen was really very lovely, and Triwathon had been alone for so long only to have Glorfindel arrive and die in his arms… meanwhile, Lumormen was looking at him with a promise and a question in his eyes… all Triwathon needed to do was say yes and something amazing would come and take him away from all his unhappiness and grief, at least for a little while…

But even as he felt himself begin to nod, he realised he had spent almost an entire lifetime of saying yes, to his friend the poacher who liked fine red wine and who dared him to venture into the elf-tamer’s preserves, who had encouraged him to try things he hadn’t thought he would like… and shortly after that friend’s death, to Esgaron, who had offered consolation and a future if Triwathon only said yes, and then had backed out of his promise… Then Glorfindel, but who could say no to Glorfindel? There at least, he had been honest from the start that there was no future for them, and Triwathon knew he could have refused, if he’d wanted to, and then the messenger who had taunted him, who had not heard his refusal, who would have said it was only consent in another language… so he felt as if he never declined, he always accepted, whether he meant to or not, whether he wanted to or not, and he was so, so full of pain and the promise in Lumormen’s eyes of at least a moment’s forgetfulness… but then he thought of Parvon, who had never, ever asked and who never would, and suddenly he realised that he despised himself.

‘No,’ he said, more sharply than he intended. ‘That is, my apologies if I gave you to think I was looking for a lover; I am full of grief and loss and do not know how I may seem, at times. You are very fair, but I cannot I… your pardon. I mean no offence.’

‘No more do I,’ the Galadhrim said, withdrawing his hand and standing neatly, still and unmoving. ‘Simply, I had hoped to learn your forest through you. And there is something about the emotions of intimacy which have a beneficial effect on the trees, we in Lothlórien have found… but I see now that your fëa is bound to another, even if your heart does not know it yet.’

‘…what?’

‘So it is I who must beg your pardon.’ He bowed to Triwathon. ‘Perhaps we should return to the palace. I will descend first. If this will make it difficult for us to work together, Commander, I can step aside for another of my companions…’

‘No, not at all, that is… it is me, I am sure it is me, I do not mean to encourage… or to look as if I need… but so it seems to be that people mistake me, and I do not wish to offend you, in turn, for I was not offended, but that you, such as you, would…’ He broke off with a sigh. ‘Perhaps I should stop talking.’

Lumormen smiled, his voice kind when he spoke.

‘Perhaps so. Friends, I think we could well be friends, however.’

‘That sounds good. So, in the spirit of friendship, would you care for a drink in my quarters before supper? We could talk about the forest, if you like. And I promise, you will not have to see the washing cascade…’

The Galadhrim laughed and shook his head.

‘If that is so, then I would be honoured!’

*

Although Triwathon was concerned, at first, that being Lumormen’s friend would be awkward, given what had passed between them, the Galadhrim seemed to be at pains to respect the commander’s self-imposed boundaries and sat on Triwathon’s sofa with a glass of honey beer with perfect decorum. They discussed East Lórien, that part of Mirkwood which Thranduil had ceded to Celeborn after the end of the War of the Rings.

‘We do not understand what your king was thinking, giving away so large a tract of forest,’ Lumormen said. ‘But we are grateful, for it is most beautiful. And for a time, our Lord Celeborn had consolation there. Are the cares of state becoming too much, perhaps?’

‘For our Elvenking?’ Triwathon grinned, almost laughing. ‘Not in the slightest! It is more that now there are fewer of us left, he wishes to gather close those who remain, and keep our way of life pure, untouched by those of dwarf and human…’

‘And how pure is a washing cascade, may I ask?’

Now the commander did laugh. ‘Yes, yes, it is a modern invention, I admit it! But it was made by one of our own elves, one who does not care to mingle with other races overmuch. His spouse says he is just shy… but whatever the reason, it is not something we got from outside! But our king is very wise, and very old in the ways of Elvenkind.’

‘As is our lord Celeborn; he knew your king’s father, you know.’

‘Yes, I did know that. I heard… something… he is not well, they are saying?’

‘Sadly, his heart was in Lothlórien and when our queen left, the land diminished and with it, his spirit, we fear. Presently, he is cared for in Imladris, and we will not be so lax as to allow him to suffer alone again.’

The sombre subject caused silence to fall for a moment, but Lumormen took a drink of his beer and set the cup down.

‘Talking of being alone, my new friend… if I might ask… how would you, in your role as commander, feel if, say, one of your company were to form an arrangement with one of we Galadhrim…? Potentially just a short-term companionship…? One would not wish to transgress, you see, but the health of your trees would be greatly improved if there were some healing energies spread amongst them…’

Ah. So, it sounded as if he would be safe from Lumormen’s advances, at least… although he was not quite sure of the efficacy of Lumormen’s suggested course of action for strengthening the forest…

‘I make a point of not interfering in the private lives of my troop, as much as possible,’ he said. ‘And if you were to find one who would find your company pleasant, I would not object. But hear me well – friend or no, if I were to learn that any elf approached was unwilling, or was given the wrong impression of how long such an arrangement might last, then I would take steps to ensure the one who wronged my elf would feel the full weight of my wrath.’

‘Understood, Commander.’ Lumormen smiled innocently. ‘One would not wish to harm any elf, fëa or hröa of course. I do not know how long we will be here… perhaps beyond the stay of those who rode with us, should your trees need us… but not more than a season or so.’

‘Then I would have no objections, of course.’

*

Working with both Narunir and Lumormen kept Triwathon busy over the next few days. He barely had time to do more than smile or nod in greeting to Parvon in the dining hall as they passed one another, and if it seemed the Chief Advisor was looking tired, well, it was hardly surprising, with all the extra work created by the king’s decrees… and then, Triwathon was called on to spend evenings in the barracks common room, where his new friendship caused a fair amount of good-natured teasing, mostly from the visiting warriors who had known him for long enough to not hold him in the same awe as his company did.

‘You mind that Master Parvon doesn’t hear about it!’ Celeguel said, handing round the beer. ‘He’ll never recover from the upset!’

‘It’s not that sort of a friendship,’ Triwathon said, laughing. ‘Not that I didn’t have the chance…’

‘Odd fellows, these Galadhrim,’ Thiriston said with a grin. ‘On patrol round Lórien once, long while back. They might look so refined and stand-offish, but… got some strange ideas… you watch, before you know it, it’ll be, oh, but it’s good for the trees, Commander, makes them fell all better… Lot of nonsense, really, just a flirty bit of mischief…’

‘Yes, I thought that was a bit far-fetched… I’m sure our trees would have told us if they actually benefitted from us doing that sort of thing in their branches… ah, well, the Galadhrim won’t be here long, I’m sure we can survive them… we’ve coped with everything else!’


	44. Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon overhears something...

In part, Triwathon was right to think Parvon busy with the king’s orders and tired from the extra work, and his air of tiredness had much to do with the constant questioning from everyone in the New Palace which had worn down even Parvon’s long patience.

Keeping his thoughts to himself was something Parvon was used to, so keeping his opinions to himself should not have been that difficult… except people asked him, repeatedly, what he thought about ‘these upsetting notions the king seems to have for us…’ as one palace elf put it. ‘After all, Master Parvon, we who live in the palace have not caused any trouble, have we? And yet, along with the rest, we must move away from our lives here and back to the Old Palace… is it fair?’

‘Our king acts with our best interests at heart,’ Parvon replied. ‘He wishes only to keep us safe.’

He had been using the same words, expressing the same ideas, for three days now and finally the flood of enquiries had begun to slow to a trickle. Commander Triwathon had been busy outside the palace overseeing the clear-up of the fire damaged villages and the Galadhrim had now started work attempting to heal the forest. It seemed to Parvon that Triwathon was spending more time than strictly necessary away from the palace, but then, given its current mood, Parvon wasn’t at all surprised.

Still, apart from meeting at supper in the dining hall, they had hardly spoken of late, and Parvon noted with mixed emotions the amount of time outside of working hours that Triwathon was in company with the Galadhrim. At first he didn’t realise that it was one elf in particular, for really, he was not that interested in them, but gradually it dawned on him that, no, Triwathon was making a new friend... the commander had been declining invitations to the breakfast meetings, too, citing the need to be in the forest early as the reason… but Parvon wondered if it might have more to do with the new friendship than with having to make an early start on the trees… 

He chided himself for the thought, scowling at his foolishness and trying not to follow that line of reasoning to its end; it was really none of his business what Triwathon did with his time, what friendships – or relationships – he formed. Just because the commander was Parvon’s friend did not mean he couldn’t be somebody else’s friend at the same time…

But that was the odd thing; somehow it would have felt better, easier to bear if Triwathon had taken the Galadhrim as a new lover; Parvon wanted, absurdly, not to have to share his friendship with another. 

The time was approaching, too, when the king and his escort would return to the Old Palace, taking with them Master Faerveren and the first wave of displaced elves on their way to new homes… the fact that the garrison would be losing one of its captains in Hannith, and several of its guards at the same time didn’t seem to him as relevant as did the fact that the entire weight of running the Palace Office would now devolve to him, without even any help with the filing… and while, in time, the work would be less, for the time being it was likely to increase.

So when he came upon two of the corridor attendants gossiping in a corner when they really should have been working, he was less inclined than usual to be understanding and patient and, indeed, overhearing a snatch of the conversation, felt a cold fury descend on him the like of which he could never remember having felt before.

‘…didn’t take him long, when all’s said and done, did it? Not ten days dead, his golden hero of Gondolin, and he’s already finding solace…’

‘Ah, well, these strangers amongst us, they do look well… and why should he not, indeed? After all…’

‘Good day, Master Parvon!’ the first said, overloud, swallowing hard as he saw the Chief Advisor bearing down upon with a less than friendly expression on his usual serene face. ‘We were just… were we not, Iochon?’

‘Um.. yes, indeed, Master Parvon, I was just saying to Haechor here, we have somewhere else to be…’

‘In fact, you are just the elves I was looking for. Follow me, come along.’ 

He set off along the corridor without checking to see they were following; if they were not, they would be in even deeper trouble… the injustice of what he had overheard stung him. Never mind if Triwathon had found consolation, that was his business, not that of the corridor attendants – but that aside, they were wrong; Triwathon had set Glorfindel aside more than two decades ago, it was not as if…

‘Sir? Master Parvon, we… if you may have misheard…’

‘There is nothing wrong with my hearing. Nor with my understanding.’ He came to a halt outside the offices of the New Palace’s housekeeper and knocked smartly on the door. ‘And after you, mellyn-nin… Mistress Lhéves, your pardon, I have instructions for you concerning these two. Having heard they are particularly interested in the garrison and its elves, I believe it will be beneficial for them to be transferred thence immediately where they can experience service amongst our brave, strong guards for themselves…’

‘Sir?’ Mistress Lhéves enquired, for the two ellyn Parvon had prodded into the room ahead of himself did not look at all happy at the prospect of new employment. ‘I am not sure if there are any openings there at present…’

‘There is always room for two more on latrine duty, Mistress. Or mucking out in the stables, particularly as the elk is currently in residence… of course, bring two from the garrison to work in the corridors in their stead if you wish, but these two will start there at once.’ He turned towards the two luckless elves. ‘And never fear; your names have just gone right to the top of the list of those who might wish to relocate to the Old Palace as soon as possible… I shall be enquiring of my good friend Commander Triwathon how you get on. Well, that is all. Goodnight to you, Mistress Lhéves.’

Lhéves gaped at the door as Parvon closed it behind her and only after a few moments had passed while she gathered wits did she turn accusatory eyes on the elves before her.

‘What did you do to offend good Master Parvon?’ she asked. ‘Iochon? Haechor? Just when I thought we had a nice, happy housekeeping section…? And you go and…? Well??? What did you do?’’

‘I… we… mighthavebeentalkingabout…someone…finding…someone when…’

‘…but we didn’t say any names… well, we couldn’t say one of them, but…we don’t gossip, do we, Haechor? We were just… saying…’

‘Sympathising.’

‘Yes, that’s it, saying, why shouldn’t he if he wants to?’

‘Do I want to know who is doing what to whom if he wants to?’

‘Just… the commander and… well… can’t you help? That is, we really didn’t mean it badly and…

‘And I am allergic to horses. And latrine duty.’

Mistress Lhéves shook her head. These two were good at their work, yes, but… not so good she was prepared to risk her own comfort to try and smooth things over for them… besides, she had an honour-nephew in the Captain Narunir’s troop, and didn’t want to ruffle any feathers for him.

‘You should have thought of that before you held your private conversation in public!’ she said smartly. ‘Now, we all of us know Master Parvon is not given to interfering lightly… and that he has a long memory. No, it is in your best interests to keep out of his way for a while…’

The two in front of her looked so miserable that she sighed, feeling a stir of sympathy. Elves were elves, they like to talk, and although she impressed upon the corridor servants the need for discretion and restraint in public, these two were not generally given to needing reminders. About to tell them, accept the new position, do the work, be properly discreet and she would try to bring them back in a few weeks, she was prevented as Iochon spoke up.

‘Mistress Lhéves, I am sorry, I may have spoken in the corridors… but it was late, nobody usually is in that area, and…’ Had he stopped there, perhaps it would not have been so bad, but the elf continued as if determined to spoil what was almost a good apology. ‘But I needed to point out to Haechor that what he was saying…’

‘Oh, do not you blame me! And what of what you were saying, that you liked the look of the Galadhrim yourself…’

Lhéves shook her head at the pair of them. No, perhaps her corridors were well rid of these two…

‘Well. Go to your rooms, pack up your things, and be ready to present yourselves to the garrison duty officer an hour before your usual start time on the morrow. No doubt you will have to be settled in.’


	45. Unwelcome and Welcome Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon's morning is interrupted several times...

The knock was perfunctory to say the least, and the door opened before Parvon could call out for the person to enter. He compressed his lips together in a hard smile and took a breath.

‘Good day to you, Elder Gomben, how may the Palace Office help you today?’ he asked with every measure of politeness he could muster; the elder from Oak Village had a hard expression on his face. ‘Will you sit?’

‘I will not,’ Gomben said. ‘Instead, I will ask why there have been thefts of property from Oak Village talain?’

‘Thefts?’ Parvon echoed. ‘Why would there be thefts, we are elves, we do not…’

‘Several important items from my talan have not been brought to the New Palace!’ The elder scowled. ‘And I wish to make a formal complaint…’

‘Indeed? The process has been undertaken by the garrison. All items found are logged, loaded onto carts and brought back here, where they are unloaded and the inventories checked and rechecked. Items are then…’

‘I know the process, I spoke to the elf in charge! Not that he was any help…’

Oh, dear. Poor Faerveren! Parvon made a mental note to tell Merenor so that the family could rally round, if necessary…

‘Of course, there has been considerable loss due to fire damage; there are bound to be some things missing. I will investigate on your behalf,’ Parvon said. ‘Meanwhile, if you would be so good as to make a list of the specific items about which you’re concerned…’

‘That’s not good enough! I want to go for myself and see but the guard won’t let me pass…’

Ah. Perhaps this was the real reason Elder Gomben was making such a fuss…

‘Unfortunately, that’s not possible; there is still a curfew in place restricting elves to inside the perimeter of the watch flets. The only people allowed near the villages are the work crews and the escort from the garrison…’

‘But I am the Einior!’

Parvon refrained from saying that, in fact, he was but the elder of the village, not having been appointed to the higher rank. Instead, he shook his head.

‘If a damaged tree falls on you, I doubt it will recognise your authority,’ he said. ‘It is for the safety of everyone that access is being limited…’

‘I protest; this is unfair…’

‘But it is the king’s own order, you were there when he said that no-one was to return to the villages… I am sorry, Elder Gomben, but if you feel so strongly about it, you should protest to him in person. Meanwhile, I will see what I can find out about the salvaged items from your village talain.’

Muttering, the elder left, and Parvon shook his head before reaching for the top document on a pile of papers that had been steadily growing and growing during the last several days. He had just begun to make sense of it – a report on diverting the water supply from the villages back to the streams – when there was a second knock at the door.

He froze momentarily, but relaxed as it opened to the friendly face of Master Merenor.

‘I hope I’m not intruding?’ the elf said with his kindliest smile. ‘But the king has no need of me this morning, so I thought perhaps I might be of use here instead… oh, have you got through those already?’ he went on, breaking into his own train of thought to nod at a stack of documents on the desk. ‘Well done!’

‘In fact, no…’ Parvon sighed. ‘For each one I read another two appear… and then, every time I pick one up from the pile, someone knocks on the door and it is yet another matter that cannot wait…’

‘Well, if you like, you could take a few of them out of order…’ Merenor crossed to the documents and pulled out here, and there, and another… ‘Yes, these are the key points to cover, I think… Why not take them into your inner room, and I’ll mind the desk for you, if you like? I know enough about his majesty’s plans to be able to help, I’m sure…’

‘Master Merenor, would you…?’ This time Parvon’s sigh was one of relief. ‘I hate to leave the day reports unread, and I have been so busy with enquiries…’

‘You go on, have a sit down and a read through. I’ll be fine, and if something should come up, well, I am sure whatever enquiries I get will keep for at least a morning.’

‘Thank you… one thing, have you seen Faerveren this morning…? That is, I’ve had Elder Gomben in here complaining about missing items and I know it’s not my assistant’s fault, but I am worried lest…’

‘In fact, Faerveren was running an errand for Healer Mae and so my own Hanben was there when the good ellon made his concerns known. But thank you, lad; it’s good to see you taking care of my grandson.’

Somewhat taken aback at being called ‘lad’, Parvon nodded, took the proffered papers, and retreated to the inner room. It took him a few minutes to settle, to stop half-listening for the outer door, but the papers demanded his attention and he found himself absorbed by the chatty style of the documents presented to him. That they were appended with Master Merenor’s initial went some way to explain their easy tone, but still the information was all there; damage to certain trees, which were worse than others and might need felling for safety, which expected to make a full recovery… a change in the next document, more sombre in tone, remarking the likely locations for the missing remains of those elves taken by the dragons… this was one he should have read yesterday, for it required an answer, and action, and he read it through twice and turned his thoughts towards his response – who would go to these locations and find out who may have been there, and then how to tell the families, and what to say… him, he supposed, perhaps taking one of the healers along… ah, but Maereth would be upset and… although… did not Master Hanben once work with the healers in the Old Palace? Perhaps, if he were willing…

He made a note to ask Master Merenor’s opinion, and tagged the document as important before carrying on to the next.

Before he could get really started, however, he heard the outer door, Master Merenor calling out to enter and Triwathon’s voice, surprised and courteous. Although the door was an encumbrance, there was no doubt Triwathon was asking for him, Parvon, and a silly sense of delight surged in him at the thought of seeing his friend, only to be steadied by the unwanted reminder that the commander had a new friend now… taking a breath, Parvon went to the door and opened it in time to hear Triwathon saying, well, yes, he was aware that Master Merenor knew almost everyone one and everything, but it really was Parvon who…

‘I am just free, Commander, if you would like a few minutes,’ he said, trying not to let his smile be too friendly. ‘I’ve had one of the elders here this morning, and Master Merenor is just shielding me. But come through.’

‘Thank you – it shouldn’t take long,’ Triwathon said, and the smile Parvon could see on his face was, surely, more than formal? ‘…and, usually, I would just say in passing, but…’

‘But we’ve been passing each other in haste, have we not?’ Parvon gestured to a chair. ‘Well, how are things with you?’

‘Busy, of course, but at least I’ve been out of doors, in the forest…’ The commander gestured the papers on Parvon’s desk. ‘We – the garrison’s work there – are the source of much of your recent paperwork, I am afraid. But I didn’t like being indoors so much, it is, at least, a chance to breathe… mostly the smell of smoke has dissipated, so the air is good again.’

‘That’s good. And have you had many problems? That is, one of the elders was complaining, I think he was looking to make me let him visit…’

‘Oh, constantly, the perimeter guards are forever having to stop people…! But I know you are doing all you can to remind them.’

‘It’s on the boards, we announce it at the day meal… well. How can I help, Triwathon?’

‘Well, it’s…’ A puzzled expression crossed Triwathon’s face. ‘I understand the garrison has you to thank for two new stable hands… who formerly worked as corridor attendants…’

‘Iochon and Haechor, yes. Are they suitable?’

‘They are… odd. That is, they behave as if they are terrified of me, ask most politely after my health, and then elbow each other and blush… it is almost as if they are… I do not know, but… there is a tale they did not volunteer for the duty…?’

‘It is my doing, I confess, that they have been moved. I heard them gossiping in the corridors and I may have overreacted a little…’

‘Elves are elves, we chatter and do not always realise… but it must have been something…?’

‘They were making free with the reputation of one of the garrison elves…’ It was difficult to find the right words, for Parvon didn’t want to give voice to the thoughts he’d had on the topic… ‘Connecting that one romantically with one of the Galadhrim… which is, of course, nobody’s business but theirs and I do not seek to… however. No names were mentioned, but anyone listening would have known, from what was said, which elf was being spoken of and… it seemed to me the best way to stop the gossip was to put the pair of them where they could see how hard our garrison works…’

‘Someone connected with one of the Galadhrim?’ Triwathon gave a rueful smile. ‘Ah, mellon-nin, there is only one member of the garrison who is commonly known to associate with our Galadhrim guests on anything less than a formal level, so I understand, I think…’ He paused to sigh. ‘I have made it clear – have had to make it clear amongst my command that I have a working relationship, perhaps a friendship, with one of them, Lumormen, and yet the tale continues, it seems, beyond the garrison and I… what is it, why do people insist on not believing, why must they…?’ A tremor came into Triwathon’s voice. ‘And I have not, I…’ 

‘Perhaps people look, and make assumptions, and then cannot shake the idea even when told it is wrong because it was their idea and they do not like to admit to mistakes. Perhaps it is just…’ Parvon sighed and shrugged. ‘Perhaps they do not know you as I do, that is all. It is never pleasant to be gossiped through the corridors, I know, but at least console yourself with the thought that the tone of conversation was …not unkind.’

‘Not unkind, I see, but… but you believe me, Parvon?’ Triwathon’s voice was almost pleading. ‘I… I know in the past I have… after a loss, but… it is not…’

‘It’s not a matter of belief, Triw; it’s that I know you,’ Parvon said. ‘If you were going to look for someone to offer you solace, it wouldn’t be one of those better-than-everyone stuck-up Galadhrim!’

This drew a brief laugh.

‘They’re not so bad, once you get to know them. You have to work quite hard at first, it’s true, but mostly, once you can get them talking, they’re not unlike us. Very sniffy about poor Master Hanben’s inventions, it must be said, but that’s just because they don’t know how clever his innovations are, how sympathetic to our lives here. Well, I had better get back; I’m supposed to be headed to Oak Village to meet Lumormen – the Galadhrim I think the gossip is all about… although what we could possibly get up to in a village full of working elves, I have no idea…’

‘Keep in mind, Triwathon, it’s your business what you do, who you befriend, where you spend your time,’ Parvon said. ‘Thank you for coming in – it’s too long since we had time to talk palace business together.’

‘Or any kind of talking. I would say, perhaps we could have a glass of wine together in my quarters or yours tonight, but you look tired.’

‘Well, I… perhaps tomorrow night, after the meal? Bring your friend, if you like, and I’ll see if Master Merenor can spare his husband for an hour; it should be entertaining…’

Triwathon laughed. ‘Oh, do not say so! I am sure it would be so, but which of the two would I support…? It would be unfair. Besides, I think I would like to have you to myself for an hour or so. Good day, then, my friend.’

Parvon’s smile was one of delight. ‘I will see you tomorrow night, if not before.’


	46. Galadhrim Rituals...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lumormen demonstrates the esoteric tree healing techniques of which he has so often spoken...

Triwathon had already been moving towards the doorway and so hadn’t registered the look of hastily-repressed delight that had crossed Parvon’s face; his mind was perforce already elsewhere. By rights, he should have been in the forest an hour since, but the odd behaviour of the two new stable hands, coupled with the rumours about them, had made him decide to take the time to find out what he could from Parvon… that his friend had felt so strongly on his behalf was both touching and slightly annoying… 

_‘Perhaps they do not know you as I do.’_

Parvon had said it, and perhaps it was true… and while it was certainly comforting that Parvon saw the truth of him, the fact that the rumours kept spreading was frustrating. There had even been a conversation with one of Narunir’s command, a young ellon whose parents were hoping he would find a nice elleth in the next few decades, but whose own hopes had led him, flushing and blushing and stammering, to ask Commander Triwathon, sir, if he was really, really sure that he wouldn’t mind if the fascinating Lumormen were to find companionship…?

Triwathon had laughed easily. ‘Cínir, if you like him, by all means introduce yourself to him. Just remember, he is not looking for his forever-love, just for an easy association. But do not let him break your heart, do you hear?’

*

As he passed through the garrison gates, nodding to the guard, Triwathon wondered how the youngster had got on. Cínir’s company was working Oak Village today, and he happened to know Lumormen would be there. Triwathon himself, however, was headed towards at Elm which was almost a shame; it would have been interesting to see how Lumormen responded to the youngster’s interest. He wondered whether he should have a word with Narunir, but decided the conversation, really, had been a personal courtesy and decided not to worry him with it.

He did hope that Cínir wouldn’t be rebuffed or, if he was, not too unkindly… and shook his head. Narunir’s warrior wasn’t really Triwathon’s responsibility; it just felt, sometimes, as if Parvon and he had divided up the care of everyone between them, honour-parents to the entire New Palace and its garrison, all the responsibilities of a family with none of the attendant comforts…

Elm Village looked sadly desolate, but the worst of the fire damage had been cleared or cut away, the ground carefully raked and those trees in need of either healing or remedial pruning had been marked accordingly.

He crossed to where part of the work crew was loading salvage onto a wagon.

‘You’re still logging everything you put up?’ he asked the elleth in charge of record-keeping. 

‘Yes, Commander; each item is marked with its found location and given a unique identifier which is then written in the book, as we were told. Have there been problems?’

‘Not as such; just a general enquiry about items from another village. Having seen for myself that we’re doing exactly as was agreed, I can report back and make things easier for the palace elves.’ He spread his hands. ‘So much was destroyed, of course there are things people must miss.’

‘I think it is more than that,’ the elf said. ‘I think some cannot accept their belongings were lost to flame; it makes it too real, still, makes them too close to events. It was bad enough for us, going   
through the forest towards them, armed and ready for danger, but for those trapped?’ She shivered. ‘It must have been dreadful.’

Triwathon nodded. ‘Well, I am away to the pruning crew, if I am needed.’

‘Do you know, Commander, when the Galadhrim will come to work with the trees here?’

Triwathon shook his head. ‘I can’t say. Because they have offered their services, and are our guests, we cannot just tell them to arrive on time and at a certain place… I think one was working going to assess matters in Ash today, while another works at Oak Village.’

The elleth sighed. ‘We should be grateful, I suppose. Only sometimes it is not easy. I wonder you can work so closely with them, if I may say so.’

The commander laughed. ‘Yes, they are not easy to like, especially as they seem to find fault in all we do. But perhaps it is because they know we are the true wood-elves of Middle Earth, for we never abandoned our forests, and so they feel they have something to prove.’ 

*

Cínir wasn’t finding it particularly difficult to get to know one of the Galadhrim, at least. Already at Oak Village when Lumormen arrived, and bolstered by Commander Triwathon’s kind encouragement, he lost no time in approaching and bowing to the tall and stately elf.

‘Greetings, Master Lumormen,’ he began. ‘I… if you need an assistant today, at all, I will be happy to tailor my duties towards your requirements, sir.’

Lumormen took in the bright eyes, the slight flush to the elf’s skin, his eager, anxious expression, and gave what passed for him as a fulsome smile.

‘That is most kind of you, Captain…?’

‘Cínir, sir.’

‘Cínir. Come with me, then. I would like to explore the extent of damage over here today…’

Cínir followed, a willing pupil. The morning passed for him in a blur of activity, his delight in being able to stand beside the object of his admiration not getting in the way of him paying attention, holding a branch when requested, offering his knowledge of the trees and the village, gradually answering questions about himself that he didn’t even realise were searching and intentional. Almost before he knew it, the morning was over and he was being hailed by the day captain.

‘Cínir! Stand down for your day meal!’ 

‘Yes, Captain Durdes,’ he said, but then shrugged, his shoulders sagging at the end of the gesture as he turned to Lumormen. ‘I am told to take my break now; if you will have my help later…?’

‘That would be most welcome, but, young one, if you do not mind, there is a little personal project I would like your company for; we can take the day meal together, if you like, up in the talan…’

‘Yes, I would like that, but, really, this talan? It is marked as dangerous, not that I am afraid, but I feel I should mention…’

‘I know my way around an ailing tree, penneth! In fact, that is what I seek to do, to support the tree. There are certain energies which elves give off on occasion, which trees find particularly healing; will you accept I know what I am about, and join me?’

Cínir thought for a moment; it didn’t really need that much consideration, just the chance to be alone, properly alone with the elf was enticement enough, but he didn’t want to appear too hasty…

‘And I am on my own cognisance,’ he said. ‘Taking my break, of course.’

‘Of course. And how you choose to spend the time is your choice, naturally. Although I could make a suggestion or two, if you need some ideas…’

*

…’and you say this helps the trees?’

Lumormen nodded, his mouth too busy for talking.

‘Well, in that case, it would be unkind of me to protest…’

…and while Cínir wouldn’t have liked to offer an opinion as to whether he thought Lumormen’s techniques would do the trees any good, he had to admit he personally thought them extremely beneficial…

*

‘Now, you listen to me!’ Elder Gomben snapped. ‘I am the Einior or Oak Village and I have a right to see what has happened to my home. And you have no right to prevent me!’

‘With respect, sir, I am charged with the task of challenging everyone who comes this way,’ the elf said. Although his tone was polite, his stance was forbidding. ‘Our king’s orders are that only those whose names are on the list for work duty are allowed to pass, and I cannot countermand them. If you can get permission from…’

‘Permission? Am I to be running around like an elfling asking for parental consent to something? No, I do not think so! I think you had better go and speak to someone on my behalf and tell them I am passing through the perimeter.’

‘But I cannot leave my post…’

‘Then you cannot prevent me from passing, can you?’

‘I… I can shoot you, sir, if I must, but, I beg, just let me send…’

‘It is too much to expect. After all, you were not there when my home burned, you did not help me then. Why should you help me now, why should you not blindly follow your orders?’ Gomben shook his head and backed away. ‘If you wish to stop me, I think you really will have to shoot me. And which is going to be easier to explain to your captain, I wonder?’

And while the hapless guard was trying to draw his bow and decide where would be an acceptable place to injure the elder without seriously harming him, Gomben dodged into the undergrowth and made off into the forest.

*

Early afternoon saw Triwathon lending a hand with one of the pruning crews. It was fraught, precise work; one elf had to steady the tree, sending reassuring thoughts into it, another had to ply the saw and sundry others had to be on hand to make sure nothing ripped before it was cut clean away, or fell suddenly and dangerously down. Being comparatively inexperienced at communion with trees on anything more than a superficial level, Triwathon was steadying a branch as another elf cut into it. A commotion in the background, he thought he heard his name but was unable to do anything about it, busy making sure the branch didn’t swing when it was cut and damage the adjacent tree. 

‘Another hand, here,’ the elf above called, and someone came to brace the branch as the last cut was made. Suddenly bearing the weight of substantial timber on their shoulders, Triwathon and the new helper staggered before setting it down. The commander had barely time to express his thanks and brush off his hands when Hannith came across.

‘Commander, one of the elves from Oak is here for you, it seems important but he won’t tell me…’

Wondering what had happened now, he followed Hannith to where an elf was waiting and bit back a sigh. It was Cínir. 

The ellon’s hands were clasped together and he looked pale and sickly. When he turned to Triwathon, there was anxiety there, if not downright fear.

‘Are you well?’ Triwathon asked. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Commander, I am sorry to interrupt, but… it would be much simpler if you could come with me…’

‘Can you tell me what it’s about?’

‘There has been… an incident…’

‘Incident?’

‘An… an accident. Sir, I can try to explain… on the way…?’

Triwathon compressed his lips to prevent a sigh; Cínir was looking miserably worried now.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘But you’d better tell me everything…’


	47. The Incident-Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon discovers exactly what has happened...

Triwathon and Cínir set off towards Oak as swiftly as they could. Cínir tried several times to get started on his tale, but after his first three faltering attempts, Triwathon halted and shook his head.

‘Just tell me,’ he said. ‘Use any words you can. And then I’ll ask questions if I need to. Come on, it can’t be that bad…’

‘Oh, Commander, it can, it…’ Cínir took a breath and blurted out a stream of words. ‘Elder… Elder Gomben climbed up into the tree where Lumormen and I were… I was helping him with a Galadhrim tree-healing ritual, and the Elder grabbed hold of a branch due for cutting and it collapsed and he fell out of the tree and… and…’ Cínir shrugged and blushed fiercely. ‘I was taking my meal break, Commander; it wasn’t as if I was on duty…’

‘Or in uniform either, I expect.’

‘Well, I… Mostly, sir.’

‘I think I’ve heard of the ritual you mean… well…’ Triwathon shook his head. ‘Was the fellow badly hurt?’

‘I do not know for certain. He was unconscious when I left to seek you… His leg was oddly twisted, it could be broken, but, oh, sir, I’m sorry, I love my posting here, I really do, and I have tried to work hard and if I… Captain Narunir might not understand, the elder is important and…’

‘Elder Gomben shouldn’t have been within half a league of Oak Village,’ Triwathon said, clasping the worried elf’s shoulder for a moment. ‘Hear me. You were off duty, you’ve done nothing wrong.’

Cínir exhaled in a sigh. ‘I’m grateful, Commander, but it looks bad, I know, and…’

‘Let’s get moving again. Now, I don’t quite understand why the tree would let him fall?’

‘Oh, that… that is because… it was the really damaged tree, we were up on the talan, and could see that where the trunk forked, one side would have to come out and all the branches on it. They weren’t supporting boughs, but they were structural, if that makes sense…?’

‘I know the talan you mean.’ The branches of that tree, Triwathon recalled, forked just above the level of the main platform with the main growth going off to the side and to which had formerly been attached a woven panel. ‘I seem to remember it’s just where you’d put your hand out to support yourself...’

‘Exactly. What happened was, I was… the first I was aware of was the tree shaking as someone climbed up – Lumormen had sung the tree into sleep so it wouldn’t hurt when the limb was sawn off – and I heard a shout, the talan shook and a shadow loomed over, and then a crack and crash and yell and…’

‘And the tree didn’t try to help because it was… asleep…?’

‘And because the big branch was coming off, Lumormen had told the tree to bring all its energies in and cut itself off from the bough to be excised. So the branch was numb, and there was no strength in it either. I think Elder Gomben had rushed towards where we were… working, and used the bough for leverage…’

‘I see.’ The commander halted again, frowning. Ai…! If he’d just allowed the rumours to continue, then Cínir wouldn’t have introduced himself to Lumormen… if Lumormen had kept his mind on his real healing talents… No. This was nobody’s fault but Elder Gomben’s; had he not broken the curfew… 

‘Commander, I am so sorry, I…’

‘No, don’t blame yourself.’ Triwathon bit back a sigh. ‘Do you think he recognised you? Gomben, that is?’

‘I don’t see how… I wasn’t… really visible, I…’

‘Well, that’s something… no, I don’t mean it harshly, believe me; quite the opposite. I want you to go back to Elm, ask Hannith to find you work for the afternoon on my request. Leave this to me, Cínir.’

‘But, sir, I…’

‘No, it’s really not your fault, none of this is. I’ll explain to Captain Narunir for you; after all, I’m meant to be overseeing the work with the Galadhrim. Now go, and don’t worry.’ He gave the youngster a rueful grin. ‘That’s my job, too.’

‘Sir, thank you, I…’

Triwathon shook his head, still smiling.

‘Dismissed,’ he said, and breaking into a lope, headed towards Oak Village.

*

He got there to a quiet sort of clamour as elves from the work crew hurried up to tell their part of the story, to ask questions and to express their dismay. Triwathon caught sight of Lumormen pushing his way forward and raised his hands to quieten the voices.

‘I’ll talk to you all presently,’ he said. ‘Lumormen, will you take me to where the elder is?’

‘This way, Commander.’ Lumormen bowed gracefully and paused until they’d crossed the former Heart Glade, leaving the group of elves behind. ‘This event has been most unfortunate, but I should assure you, it was not the young warrior’s doing…’

‘I didn’t think it was, to be fair.’

‘How is he? He seemed most concerned for the safety of… Elder Gomben, I think he said?’

‘I’ve set him to work elsewhere this afternoon. He was a little shaken.’

‘I am truly sorry to have embroiled him in this; had I known we might be interrupted I would not have begun the healing rituals…’

‘The rituals. Yes, you know, I’m not sure how helpful these rituals of yours really are…’

‘Oh, come now, Triwathon! I did offer to show you…

‘On present evidence I’d say your rituals are doing more harm than good. At present we seem to have an injured tree as well as injured elf on our hands and another who’s rather worried for his future in the guard; I’m not sure this is the time for levity, even for elves.’ 

‘Forgive me. Come, the place is just here.’

Lumormen led the way around the side of a badly damaged tree. In the lee of the tall trunk Triwathon saw a recumbent form on the ground, a small cluster of elves in attendance and off to one side a long, thick broken bough with many smaller branches attached or snapped off around. He spared a second to wonder how much bigger the broken timber looked than when it had been in its proper place attached to the tree before lifting questioning eyes to the gathered elves. 

‘Is the day captain here?’

‘Yes, Commander.’ Captain Durdes lifted her hand and came to his side.

‘Report, please, Captain. Has anyone sent for a healer yet?’

‘We have, Commander. When we sent word to you, another was dispatched to the palace for help.’ The day captain gestured towards the figure. ‘We have tried to make Elder Gomben more comfortable. Amar here has field training, he has straightened the injured leg and splinted it so that worse damage cannot occur should the elder wake and try to move.’

‘Good, well done, Amar. And he’s remained unconscious since the fall?’

‘He woke and swore at us all, Commander,’ Amar volunteered. ‘And said some unkind things about the elves he thought he saw. If you know of the Námo special, I used that to make him more comfortable while I worked his injury.’

‘I know it. Probably a good idea.’

Triwathon crossed to kneel beside Elder Gomben. A glance upwards showed the raw, ragged face of the broken branch – more of a second trunk, almost – directly overhead at some height. 

‘The detail of the accident had been told to me,’ Triwathon said. ‘But as to how Gomben came to be on the talan in the first instance…?’

‘We were not expecting anyone,’ Durdes said. ‘Least of all an elder of the village. He claimed to have spoken to Master Parvon this morning; and since the perimeter guards seem to have let him pass, I had no argument he would accept to send him away. He said he wished to examine his former home but when he was told it was unsafe he raged at us that the tree would not let him fall. We were none of us at work stations, having gathered for the meal, except for our Galadhrim friend and his assigned assistant who, it seems, had willingly given up his free time to assist with a ritual to enhance the tree’s recovery. Before we could offer an escort or give warning that a work was taking place, he had ascended and then came a shout and a crash and the poor tree split in two…’

‘Lumormen? Has any real harm come to the tree?’

The Galadhrim had been keeping back while Triwathon talked to the work crew, but now came forward with a tilt of his head.

‘In fact, the tree had drawn all its strength out from that particular branch since it was damaged beyond regrowth. Its sentience too had been withdrawn, so the tree felt nothing and has assured me it already feels better for releasing the burden of damaged wood.’

‘Oh, that is a relief!’ Captain Durdes said.

‘Commander? Captain?’ Amar spoke up. ‘He’s waking.’

‘Let’s clear the area.’ Captain Durdes nodded to the interested elves who had filtered after Triwathon and tried to merge with the scenery. ‘Amar, you stay. Everyone else – back to work. No, you weren’t working this side of the glade, go back across…’

Of course Durdes herself stayed. ‘As a witness, Commander, for he was making terrible accusations…’

Gomben woke with a murmur and a jolt and tried to prop himself up on his elbows.

‘What happened? What have you done to me? My leg!’

‘Sir, you were injured in the fall,’ Amar said in formal tones. ‘I have done my best to stabilise the broken bone and the healers have been alerted…’

‘Broken…? Ah, I remember. There was… And… there he is! Triwathon! Well, I don’t know what you think you were doing in my home, Commander, nor what right you think you had to…’

‘Elder Gomben, you’ve had an unfortunate fall and are probably confused as a result.’ Triwathon said, calmly enough. ‘Help is on its way. Meanwhile, perhaps you can explain what you were doing here?’

‘I wanted something from my home and then I found you and that… that… Galadhrim…’

‘But, sir,’ Captain Durdes said, easing herself into the elder’s eyeline. ‘Commander Triwathon has only just arrived.’

‘What? Nonsense, I know what I saw…’

‘I have been working at another village today, in fact,’ Triwathon said. ‘I was with Captain Hannith’s crew until word came there’d been an accident here.’

‘I don’t believe it! And by the time I finish telling his majesty what you were doing…’

‘Perhaps you’d better rest quietly,’ the commander added, turning away. ‘And take a moment to consider which of us has disregarded the express order of the king and which following his instructions.’

He walked back across the glade and found a sound tree to lean his back against, closing his eyes and trying not to think about the horrors Gomben’s stories could unleash on the reputation of the garrison company, the harm it could do to young Cínir if the truth got out, and the realisation that the best course of action would be to let Gomben’s accusations pass without too much argument; since everyone knew about the friendship between the self-appointed leader of the Galadhrim and the Garrison Commander, nobody would doubt it, and the rumours would flare again…

‘Sir? Commander? I know it wasn’t you, sir, and as to the person it may have been, well, he’s young and these Galadhrim are a lot of temptation…’

Captain Durdes had followed him. He opened his eyes and slid his gaze across to her.

‘Gomben can do nothing except bluster and posture,’ he said. ‘I know from a conversation in the Palace Office that he was told only this morning not to come here. So if it comes to it, he’s the one at fault. If we can keep the identity of Lumormen’s… assistant… private, so much the better.’ 

‘As to that, sir, there are many witnesses who saw you arrive after the Elder’s fall. But it’s good of you, sir; I know the youngster was worried.’

‘Let Gomben say it was me, if he must accuse someone; my shoulders are broad enough and the people who matter won’t believe it.’

At least, he hoped so. 

*

By the time he’d got back to the palace, seen Gomben installed in the healer’s rooms, and suffered through a terse, tense interview with Thranduil whose dispassionate, chilled acceptance of the news was far more worrying than any censure could have been, Triwathon realised the list of those who wouldn’t believe the story was likely to pitifully few. 

Feeling unable to face the formality of the feasting hall and the weight of all the unspoken accusations and assumptions, he headed back towards the garrison, his head aching, and shut his door on the rest of the palace before pouring himself a cup of winter wine and trying not to think too much about the repercussions of the day’s events.

A familiar knocking an hour or so later stirred him from a well of morose reflections. Rather than call out, he rose and opened the door. Parvon stood there, a meal trolley at his side.

‘I didn’t have an appetite tonight either,’ he said. ‘I thought we could not-eat together, if you liked. I know we said tomorrow, but, well, the king has sent word I am likely to be busy tomorrow… Triw, if you don’t feel like company, it’s fine, I can go away…’

‘Have you heard what happened today?’

‘Some of it, the improbable stuff. Gomben ignored everything I said to him and fell out of a tree, then tried to say you were in the tree at the time with a Galadhrim companion, even though you were at Elm.’ Parvon shrugged. ‘The report says he’s broken a leg and suffered a concussion. And I gather Thranduil’s already asked him if he thinks a nice, long sea voyage would do him good… People will start talking again, I suppose, but only to take their minds off the rest of the awfulness; it’ll blow over, soon enough. I’ll speak the truth for you, whenever you need it, and the Palace Office will formally counter Gomben’s claims as necessary.’

Triwathon felt his headache easing and realised something oddly freeing…

He didn’t care what anyone else thought. 

Really, the opinion of the entire woodland realm could be against him, and it was nothing; as long as Parvon believed him, then it didn’t matter. He felt himself smiling, saw Parvon smile shyly in return, and his own smile became a laugh. 

‘Well, Parvon, as long as I don’t find myself suddenly encumbered with dozens of new latrine attendants, I think I can live with a bit of gossip,’ he said.


	48. '...A Change of Plan...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil's morning meeting with Parvon does not go as the advisor had expected...

It had been a fine evening, even though Parvon hadn’t stayed long in Triwathon’s rooms. 

He smiled to himself as he wheeled the trolley back along the corridor towards the servant’s room, his thoughts on Triwathon’s last words to him: ‘So, I come to you tomorrow, after the meal, yes? After all, we had arranged it.’

And, of course, Parvon had said, yes, after all, it was all arranged, he would look forward to it… especially as he thought he might have a difficult day ahead… an early meeting with the king in the Hall of Audience – formal, then, matters of palace business – and perhaps Triwathon’s awkward situation would be discussed.

As Parvon understood, it, there was nothing for his friend to officially worry about; Thranduil had been furious that Gomben had ignored his instructions, and enough had been in the day reports from the villages to show Triwathon hadn’t actually been at Oak when Gomben’s accident had taken place. It was still a mess, of course; too much was going to have to be left unexplored in order to protect the as-yet unnamed individual who had been… participating… in the Galadhrim ritual, and it might require some convoluted reasoning… but as the king seemed content not to press for too many details, all should be well.

So although Parvon wasn’t anticipating the swiftest of meetings, and while he fully expected to find his work load doubled as Thranduil responded to Gomben’s disobedience and Lumormen’s ritual activity, it really wasn’t the meeting he thought he would have.

‘No doubt you have been party to events at Oak Village yesterday,’ the king began in slowly languid tones. ‘Elder Gomben’s injury precluding his removal from the New Palace for a time, other measures to silence his pernicious tongue have become necessary.’

‘Sire, I have been apprised of the circumstances of the elder’s accident,’ Parvon began. ‘I am sure whatever your majesty requires can be instigated promptly.’

‘Yes. We have already decided upon a course of action. It will require a change of plan.’

Something about Thranduil’s tone brought a return of Parvon’s anxiety. The king’s expression didn’t change as he continued. 

‘This will necessitate your return to duties in the Old Palace. You will join the convoy which leaves at first light tomorrow.’  
It took a moment for this to sink in, for Parvon to realise that his entire world was being torn down without warning.

‘S…sire? My king, I… I do not know what to say, but…’

‘There is nothing to say. This is what I require of you.’

‘I am not sure I understand?’

‘It is really not complicated. You will stand down from Palace Office duties immediately and recommence work as a scribe and advisor in the Old Palace once you arrive there.’

‘But my work is here, sire!’ Parvon blurted the words, aware that speaking to the king in this way, and in these most formal surroundings of the Hall of Audience, was tantamount to rebellion. ‘All I have is here, I must to stay, I…’

‘No, Parvon. You must obey your king. Return to your rooms, pack your belongings, and avoid contact with as many persons as possible for the rest of the day; meals will be brought to you there. You will be escorted the convey in the morning.’

‘But, your majesty! The Palace Office cannot be left unpeopled…’

‘Faerveren will take over. I know he is comparatively new to responsibility, but all your reports show he has been an exemplary assistant during the recent crisis and you have been forever praising him; I do not doubt he will do well.’

‘But, sire, he was promised he could spend time with his family!’ Parvon was grasping for excuses now. ‘It would be most unfair…’

‘In fact, he will still do so.’ Thranduil lifted a minimal hand and Merenor stepped forward from the shadows, an apologetic expression in his bright-ringed eyes. ‘Master Merenor and his spouse will stay, and Captains Canadion and Thiriston reassigned to local duty at once. Thus Faerveren will have two blood kin and two honour-relatives to support him. Dismissed, Parvon. You have work to do.’

‘My king?’ Merenor stepped forward and bowed. ‘My grandson is a little young, yet, to know all the workings of the offices here.   
Might I request Master Parvon’s time this morning to show me the systems himself?’

Thranduil’s face settled into a fractional frown.

‘If you deem it necessary, very well. But remember; Master Parvon is unavailable to anyone else.’

‘As my king desires.’ Merenor bowed again, deeply and slowly, rising to back away and turn so that he could wink at Parvon. ‘Master Parvon, if you will lead the way?’

‘I…’ Parvon shook his head to clear it, swallowed to make sure he had a voice and tried again. ‘I shall endeavour to serve.’

The king waved him away, but even as Parvon slumped towards the doorway the king called him back.

‘Oh, Parvon? You could always undertake a long sea voyage, should my orders not be to your liking. It might prove more advantageous to your health than this constant complaining...’

The breath caught in Parvon’s throat and he inclined his head, as cold and formal as his king.

‘I will give the matter due consideration, sire,’ he said. ‘Particularly if the air in the Old Palace does not suit me.’

Thranduil’s usually calm gaze, for a moment, was astonished, but Parvon, bowing and retreating from the Hall of Audience, didn’t see.

*

He didn’t speak as he led the way to the Palace Office, Merenor at his side respecting the silence. But once in the Palace Office, Parvon shut the door behind himself, narrowly missing catching Merenor’s robes of office as he did so, and took a breath.

‘What is he thinking!!! My life is here, everything I have worked towards and done of any worth is in this place, and our king will just… just… break it all down on a whim?’

‘…it’s not a whim, as such…’

‘And I am expected to agree? Oh, I had accepted his decree that the New Palace must close, because of these dreadful events, but to wrench me away from seeing it done, it is hard, too hard, and…’

‘Parvon. Parvon, lad, calm yourself, it’s not as bad as…’

‘Not as bad? Master Merenor…’ He gestured about him at the desks and coffers. ‘This is everything to me! My work and life here is as close to happiness as I can hope for, and now it is…I am wrenched away from my work, my home, my… my friends?’ Parvon inhaled, breath ragged. ‘I… oh, this is impossible, I cannot…!’

Merenor looked through the drawers until he found the emergency spirits and poured a hefty measure into a beaker, passing it to Parvon.

‘Come through to the inner office, sit down, take a moment and think it through…’

‘Think it…?’ 

‘Talk it out. Don’t just rail at me, lad. You’re too good at your job just to let emotion take over. Come, process this like a King’s Royal Scribe…’

Parvon shook his head and went through, dropping into a chair and covering his face with his hand as he tried to compose himself. # The sense of panic that threatened to engulf him at the thought of leaving began to subside.

‘I… The New Palace will be abandoned, I know that. It was hard to hear when our king decided, because so much of myself is in this place, but I could see ahead, to be part of closing things down, to be part of the unmaking as I was in the making, and that seemed fitting, but this is…’ 

He broke off to sip at the strong spirits.

‘So it’s not that, then,’ Merenor put in, ‘that’s got you so distressed. I didn’t think it was. There’s more going on here, Parvon, that the king saw fit to tell you.’ Merenor took a seat on the edge of a table, gestured across the room towards the outer corridors. ‘In a perfect world, Thranduil intended hauling Gomben off to the Old Palace and offering him a place in Ithilien… well, threatening him with such. But Gomben can’t go anywhere for at least a week, Healer Mae says. She sighed when she told me, so it’s my guess she’d quite like to be rid of him, but I digress… And he’s talking. Won’t shut up. Embellishing the facts, not that I know the facts, nor anyone except for one of the Galadhrim and an unnamed member of the garrison, neither of whom are offering their version of events, the Galadhrim because he doesn’t see what business it is of ours what rituals he performs on the trees, and the garrison member because… possibly nobody’s found him to ask him yet.’

‘People are talking about anything these days,’ Parvon acknowledged. ‘Anything to take their minds off what’s happened to us.’

‘Thranduil doesn’t mind elves talking, but he does want to control what they’re talking about. Granted, the main story is, forgive me, Triwathon and Lumormen’s affair…’

‘There isn’t an affair. They’re only friends.’

‘Ah, Parvon, we’ve touched on this, and while I respected your opinion at the time, you have to admit, it looks like more now…’ Merenor made his voice gentler, kinder. ‘I am sorry if this hurts you; and I think that is the main reason Thranduil is sending you away, so you don’t have to see…’

Parvon shook his head and smiled for the first time since he’d entered the Hall of Audience.

‘No, I know how it looks. But that’s not how it feels. Merenor, you know how it is for me; I feel it in my fëa when Triwathon is in danger, or happy, or… even when he was in Imladris with his Balrog-slayer, I knew when they were reunited, I felt his fëa sing. So, no, there is only friendship between Triwathon and the Galadhrim.’

Merenor tipped his head.

‘Yes, when I first met you, it was him you were looking for. Well, I do not think it is something I would like to say to the king, but I will accept your judgement in this. However… it does not alter the fact that most of the palace believe our good commander has found more than friendship. This, coupled with Gomben’s accident and accusations, does not sit well with his majesty…’ Merenor gave a shrug, and tried for a disinterested expression as he went on. ‘Moreover, it is known that you, Master Parvon, had two corridor servants reassigned to more menial duties elsewhere for gossiping in the corridors, but not a peep can anyone get out of them as to whom their subject might have been… Now, his majesty has given me to understand that if, perhaps, you could remember the names of those discussed, the subsequent work created – filing and such, he understands – could make it imperative that you stay here, after all…’

Silence. Merenor didn’t meet Parvon’s gaze, instead sat picking at imaginary lint on his robes of office.

‘But, Master Merenor, given that the corridor servants appear to have mended their ways, surely to pass on such information would undermine them, and discourage their new-found discretion? Much though I would love to capitulate, I do have my self-respect to consider.’

A laugh, and Merenor relaxed.

‘Ai, it is good to hear you say so! I really did not wish to offer his majesty’s suggestion, but our king is our king, and if you disobey him too openly…’

‘…you risk being assigned away from those you love.’ Parvon shook his head. ‘But surely that can’t be the only reason I am to be banished?’

‘In fact, there is another matter… there is talk of the Chief Advisor spending rather a lot of time with his underscribe, which our king has noted seems to fit with the timing of the removal of servants from that part of the New Palace…’

Parvon gasped.

‘Master Merenor! Never would I uproot the servants to hide something so despicable as such a thing would be! I am most fond of Faerveren, but I assure you, I have not ever thought of him in that way, nor would I! Not only because it goes against all my principles, to entangle anyone when I know my fëa looks to someone else, but because I hold my position, and his, in too much respect! He is young, and very appealing, and I can understand why people might make assumptions, but I…’ 

He broke off, aware that Merenor was grinning at him and shaking his head.

‘And you know this, of course.’

‘My grandson told me in slightly sad tones that Master Parvon was very kind, and very helpful, and had advised him that saving himself for his true love – as himself was – would be the best thing. We agreed that you are a one-elf elf, and your advice was very wise. Although I think, perhaps, he does rather admire you, you know.’

‘That’s most flattering. As for the inventive minds of the populace, apparently the tale of Faerveren and Parvon is a recurrent one.’

‘This time, however, it has come to the notice of the king. And so when you return to the Old Palace, it will appear that Faerveren is being supported safely in the bosom of his family, while Master Parvon is sent away in apparent, but unsubstantiated, disgrace…’

‘Why?’

‘Is it not obvious, Parvon? If you are removed from the New Palace, then obviously Triwathon has done nothing wrong, and the garrison elf who is really involved with an unscrupulous Galadhrim does not have to be named… and Gomben can bluster and we can say, if it is true, why did not the king banish him?’

Parvon shook his head, bewildered.

‘So this is to protect Triwathon and Faerveren, then?’

‘Ultimately, yes.’

‘Then why did our king not say so? He must know that to help my friends I would go without demur.’

‘Ah, but Thranduil wanted demur. There’s always someone manages to overhear what happens in private audiences with the king, and word usually gets out.’ Merenor laughed briefly. ‘Do you know, I used to worry about it, back in my early days in the King’s Office. I spent a lot of my personal hours trying to track down the source… and discovered, to my shock, that it was quite often the king himself.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ Parvon said. ‘Now, Master Merenor, you wanted me to talk you through the systems?’

‘No, I wanted to get you away from the king and give you an excuse not to go into hiding just yet. Of course, I am the King’s servant, just as you are, and so if you were to wish to put your time to good use… to meet friends… better not to tell me, nor could I, for example, pass on messages to, should you wish it, the garrison personnel. But Lord Arveldir is not employed by the king, and if I might happen to walk past his door and give him a knock, you would not mind a visit from him, perhaps? Especially as he is also a friend of Commander Triwathon, who might otherwise get some garbled tale…?’

‘You’ve learned all the tricks, haven’t you, Master Merenor?’

‘I like to think so, Master Parvon.’


	49. Clandestine Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon has company...

‘I really am rather relieved I no longer work for his majesty,’ Arveldir said, shaking his head. ‘He was always… difficult, but he does seem more than usually trying at present.’

Parvon tried to smile. Merenor had been as good as his word, and Parvon had been back in his private rooms for only a few minutes when Arveldir had arrived, bringing with him Erestor and a wealth of quiet, calm sympathy.

‘Sometimes I wonder how you managed for so long, Arveldir… he is… I just do not have the way of him at present…’

‘He would make the most outrageous suggestions and then, if I seemed offended, later would claim he had been joking and I had obviously lost my sense of humour. My usual retort was that yes, I generally did lose my sense of humour when I found myself called upon to double my workload, or indulge his whims and foibles…’

‘I don’t know him well enough for joking, I do not think. I doubt I ever shall, really.’

‘Well, I am sure all this will pass, and you will be back here in a few weeks.’

‘By which time we will be gone, of course,’ Erestor said. ‘We are already making preparations. Our friends at home still do not know about our dear Fin. I can manage around the palace with just a stick now, and only then for the longer corridors.’

‘You will both be missed! Of course, it is wonderful that you are so much recovered, Master Erestor… and I do not envy you the task of repeating the sad news; it is not an easy thing to do. You will feel his loss more keenly there, perhaps.’

‘It will be new and fresh again, I fear,’ Erestor said, his eyes unhappy. ‘But Melpomaen and Lindir deserve to hear in person, and we have all supported each other for so long that we will each draw comfort from the other. Of course, I have my wellspring here,’ he added with a little loving glance at his husband. ‘But even so…’

‘And then there will be the memory stone to come back again,’ Arveldir said. ‘I do not think I shall accompany it, however; his majesty might once more offer me gainful employment.’

‘I do not suppose you have need of an assistant, at all?’ Parvon asked quietly. ‘Even the most junior of positions…’

‘Now, Parvon, do not despair!’ Arveldir said briskly. ‘Just remember the king always needs a good advisor more than any advisor needs a king. But if you do find it too much of a struggle, feel free to send word, or invite yourself to Imladris. There will always be a welcome for you.’

*

Once his visitors had left, Parvon turned to the task of packing. Really, he didn’t want to take anything; he wanted to stay here instead. 

But if he must…

The king’s suggestion that there would be the chance of a ship returned to him and, once more, he considered it. But perhaps he had better wait, see how things worked out in the Old Palace… 

However, if he were to sail, then he might not be able to return to the New Palace first; most of the voyages west now began from Ithilien, and so with more care than he had anticipated, he decided to go through each drawer, every coffer and box, with a view to taking his life with him, so to speak.

Even so, there wasn’t that much, not really. Clothes, braid clasps, his knives (one for his belt and one for his boot) and bow and arrows, wrist guard. A few books and bits and pieces, not enough to weigh down a wagon, not much more than he could comfortably carry.

It was a little sad, when he looked at the small, neat stacks of clothing, the few other items…

A hasty tapping at the door turned him away from his sleeping room and sent him to answer. Faerveren entered in a flurry of gestures and a stream of words.

‘Master Parvon, Master Parvon, oh, I am so, so, sorry, for it must be my fault and I do not know what I can do, but… oh, and they say I am not to be alone with you and so here is my Daerada, but tell me, if I go to the king and explain, will it help? I want to help, I do not want you to go!’

Parvon, retreating before this onslaught of words, took a step back before he could smile and spread his hands.

‘Be welcome, Faerveren, and be calm. Sit down, get your breath. And Master Merenor, come in. Now, penneth, this is not your fault. It is the king’s fault, his will is that I return to the Old Palace. I am sorry you won’t see your parents, but at least you have your grandfather and uncle here.’

Merenor nodded as he closed the door behind him, setting down a tray.

‘We brought you the day-meal,’ he said. ‘Faerveren would not be content without coming to see you; I hope it’s not inconvenient?’ 

‘It’s very kind,’ Parvon said. 

‘But it is silly that you have to be here, Daerada!’

‘Perhaps it is a bit silly,’ Parvon said. ‘But Master Merenor is as welcome as you are.’

‘I don’t understand!’ Faerveren said. ‘It is not right that Master Parvon has to go!’

‘There’s your advisor-in-training lesson for today, then,’ Merenor said, smiling to take away any sting. ‘You can’t always understand the king’s orders – you just have to trust that he knows what he’s doing. Thranduil usually has a plan.’

‘Although sometimes it isn’t a very good plan,’ Parvon said, sighing. ‘But all you can do, as an advisor, is keep quiet about it until you understand, or perhaps can give the king more information to work with; he’s never wrong, you see, he can never be wrong or people might begin to lose their trust in him, and we need to be able to trust our king.’

‘So… if we could find out what he really needs to know to stop Master Parvon having to leave, Daerada, or to bring him back sooner…?’

‘Please, don’t, Faerveren!’ Parvon put in quickly. ‘Too many other people could get hurt if you dig into this too deeply. You. Your uncles, your grandfather… as well as the people involved… it is all right… I am growing accustomed, it will be well.’ He said it firmly and smiled, allowing his eyes to begin warmly and then slide into a distant formality to change the topic. ‘You brought me the day meal, you said? For us all to share, I hope? And as we eat, there are one or two points of business which might not already be covered on the noticeboards or in the files…’ 

*

Mid-afternoon, and Parvon had been alone again for long enough that everything he was taking with him was packed. It all went easily into two saddlebags, apart from bow and quiver which he would, of course, wear as he travelled. The contents of his drinks cupboard (a bottle of summer wine, half a bottle of spirits, a few small bottles of wheat beer and a flask of winter wine) he put in a box and wrote Triwathon’s name on; he hoped at least that Triwathon would still be able to visit him that evening; it was the only thing, really, he had to look forward to, even though it would almost certainly be painful.

A brisk and formal knock at the outer door, followed by the respectful tones of the housekeeper.

‘Master Parvon, if you are not busy…’

‘Come in, Mistress Lhéves.’ He opened the door. ‘I am glad you are here; I can go through things with you. Mostly I am organised, but there is a coffer with items I am not taking; they can be disposed of as is best, perhaps some elves are lacking in clothing after the fire… although perhaps they won’t want my shabby remnants…’

He said it with a smile, but found Lhéves looking at him sternly.

‘That is not what I am here for, Master Parvon,’ she said, her voice formal. ‘As you are leaving, however, I wished to learn whether I might reinstate my former assistants to their rightful posts, to be told by young Master Faerveren in the Palace Office that no, you had left instructions they are to remain in place; it is most unfair, Master Parvon, especially as it stands, with you going, why should they not come back?’

‘Commander Triwathon likes them where they are,’ he said, making a mental not to ensure Triwathon was warned about this. ‘If you’re that concerned, take the matter up with the king. Otherwise, leave them in the garrison. So, while you are here, and as I am going tomorrow, thank you for your work in the New Palace. Personally, I have had nothing to complain about from the way you run matters, and so I shall say in my formal letter to the king. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?’

‘It seems… unfair to Iochon and Haechor...’

‘Nevertheless. Thank you, if that is all, I am sure you must have other work somewhere?’

Lhéves made the most formal curtsey he’d ever seen from her, and walked stiffly from the room. 

Parvon sighed as he fastened the door. He’d no wish to part on bad terms with anyone, but even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t very well have agreed to the reinstatement of the two servants, not with the interpretation of their initial relocation now being skewed to take attention away from Triwathon and Lumormen… 

Well, he had the evening to look forward to. Perhaps he’d have an hour or two to himself now, at least…

…and the first hour was fine, the second, well, by then he’d started to think about his return to the Old Palace. The King’s Office there would be very different from how he’d left it; now Melion, Master Merenor’s third son, was Chief Advisor, assisted by various scribes and underscribes. Merenor usually held sway in the Division of Matters Matrimonial, his husband Hanben headed the Office of Innovations assisted by Merenor’s second son, Baudh; it was becoming almost a family affair… and where Parvon was expected to fit in, he’d no idea…

He suspected that Thranduil didn’t, either, and that it would be left to Melion to find suitable duties for him. Filing. There was always filing.

The second hour passed…

Outside, the light filtering through the window dimmed and softened towards evening, and Parvon lit the lamps. There was a while to go, yet, until he could reasonable expect Triwathon…

…time continued to roll onwards, as was its wont. Soon it became appropriate to listen out for the familiar, wanted knocking, but it didn’t come.

And didn’t come.

Eventually there was a knock, not Triw’s, though, and a note slid under the door to say his evening meal was outside. 

He sighed as he fetched in the tray; his appetite was lacking as was the presence of his expected guest.

*

It was growing chill, and he knelt to light the fire, taking longer than necessary to coax the flames into robust life as he wondered what Thranduil had done to keep Triw away, what tales he’d been told… of course, it wasn’t that long since Triwathon had been accusing Parvon of spending too much time with his assistant… would matters now make it seem as if he’d been right, was that it?

Or was Parvon just making himself seem more important to the commander than he actually was?

He sat with a small cup of winter wine and his sad thoughts until disturbed by an unusual sound. Not the door – and not from within his living room – but from the sleeping chamber beyond. Setting down the empty glass with a sigh, he went to see if something had fallen down, and entered the room to find a figure climbing stealthily through the open window…

…into the room.

The figure turned and laughed softly, sliding down the window.

‘Sweet Lord Eru, Parvon, what in the name of all the Valar have you been doing?’

‘W…what? Triw? Are you breaking into my rooms?’

‘Of course I am! There’s a guard at each end of the corridor… not from the garrison, and looking fed up… oddly enough, this afternoon I suddenly found myself with late patrol around the perimeter… and wait, no, not, what have you been up to? More, what does Thranduil think you’ve been up to?’

‘I thought you weren’t coming!’ Parvon shook his head. ‘I… nothing, I honestly have done nothing…’

‘I didn’t think you had, somehow; I’m sure I’d have known.’

‘W…what?’

‘…working as closely as we do… sorry, have done. Really, though – what’s going on here today?’

‘Come through. I’ll try to explain… what I know, anyway.’

*

Seated either side of the fire, each with a glass of wine – Triwathon had brought a pack filled with bread, cheese, fruit and a bottle of the best red (‘Arveldir stole it for me, he said he’d blame Elder Gomben if he was asked…’) Parvon gave his friend the details of his awful, awful meeting with the king and subsequent seclusion as they ate and drank.

‘If there’s now a watch on the corridor, it’s my guess our king discovered I’d been receiving clandestine visits – clandestine, chaperoned visits,’ he added. ‘Since there is a tale – or shortly will be a tale – that I have been too much in company with Faerveren and so am being sent to the Old Palace in apparent disgrace. But the youngster wanted to apologise, for he blamed himself…’

‘Ai, Parvon! And after what I said to you on the matter, and even as I spoke I knew it was wrong of me…! If this has come to the king’s ears, then it is my fault, not his…’

‘It is neither your fault nor Faerveren’s; our king is just… ai, he is impossible! But it suits his purpose to send me away, and so I must go.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. So you will have had no other news today, then?’

‘Not since the day meal, which Faerveren brought, bringing also with him his grandfather…’

‘And what does that say about the truth of the king’s story, then, if the one from whom you are being protected, has come to see you?’

‘I wonder if this may be why I am now blessed with corridor guards… but is there other news?’

‘Thranduil had a private interview with Lumormen, who has decided to withdraw his Galadhrim friends and his service. He’s done so with offended dignity and barbed reminders of the former friendship of Lord Oropher with Lord Celeborn… I hear Thranduil was not impressed, but so… the rest of our friends from Imladris are waiting for Erestor to recover fully before theyleave, while Erestor himself says he will willingly go in an elf-barrow if it gets them home more swiftly…’

‘I begin to be glad I was not in the office today, but my poor friends…’

‘Well, Master Merenor can take care of himself, and his grandson – and he has Captain Thiriston to back him up, of course! As for me…! I have not quite decided if I am meant to be prevented from speaking with you, or if it merely must seem as if I have not… but whatever, I do not wish to play our king’s games for him. Parvon, this is outrageous!’

‘Indeed it is.’

‘What’s more, I have had a written request that Iochon and Haechor be returned to their corridor duties as soon as you have left the palace… I spoke to the two ellyn myself and told them how very much I enjoyed watching them work and how we simply could not manage without them… then tore up the message and returned it to Mistress Lhéves in pieces with a cover note to say I couldn’t understand a word...’ He burst out laughing. ‘Ai, I ought not; it was childish, perhaps, but I have word that you did not support a return to their earlier duties…’

‘Thranduil will be unhappy,’ Parvon said, shaking his head and smiling. ‘For it is his intent, I think, to make it seem I sent them away so that they could not observe my alleged behaviour… and I have left instructions in the Palace Office not to bring them back.’

‘Well, I will keep insisting for as long as I can.’ Triwathon grinned. ‘Why make it easy for him?’ 

‘I am grateful. Oh, I have something for you – nothing exciting, but I thought you might find a use for it…’

He indicated the box which he had set aside, and Triwathon looked in.

‘Very kind of you! Yes, if you left it, no doubt it would simply go to waste; it certainly wouldn’t find its way back to stores… shall we breach this bottle, before I leave? It will be less for me to carry back through the window…’

‘If you wish; I must admit I have no great hurry to retire tonight.’

They sat over their wine, watching the fire and talking randomly, for far longer than was strictly necessary. When the fire had sighed and the embers began to settle, Triwathon too sighed.

‘Well, my friend, I need to be heading for your window, I am afraid,’ he said, stretching. ‘Would that it were not so, but I am instructed away in the morning, to be at the far perimeter by daybreak… one would think, if one were so inclined, that matters had been arranged so that you and I might not meet in time to make our farewells. As it is, I must be early in wishing you well.’

‘I am grateful, Triwathon. Your company this night has been more than welcome. I shall miss our evenings.’

‘And I, I shall miss your friendship. I doubt Master Merenor and I will treat as easily together, for all that he is a most friendly and approachable ellon…’

‘Indeed! But that reminds me – in the Palace Office, in what used to be the cabinet where I kept all the plans of the New Palace and its environs – Asfaloth’s saddlebags. They have the personal possessions of… of the Seneschal of Imladris. When his friends come, returning his Starlight Gemstone…’

‘Or they could go back with Asfaloth himself,’ Triwathon said. ‘But thank you for thinking.’

‘I do feel for you,’ Parvon said softly. ‘I had expected to be the one to greet the return of the gemstone… as it is…’

‘I’ll cope. After all, this latest lover… we both have our grief in common, and I know… I know my friend was less lonely because of him.’ Triwathon sighed. ‘But I could wish you might be here to help.’

Parvon found a wry smile twisting his face as he rose to accompany Triwathon to the window.

‘Indeed, my friend, as do I. Be well.’

Triwathon reached out and squeezed Parvon’s shoulder gently before climbing onto the window sill and taking the box of assorted alcohols from Parvon’s hands. He smiled, a kindness and warmth in his eyes Parvon thought he’d remember forever.

‘And you, Parvon. It will not be the same without you.’


	50. Return to the Old Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon leaves with the convoy...

The knock on Parvon’s door revealed two elves he recognised from the garrison.

‘You’re Hannith’s warriors, yes?’

His polite enquiry was disregarded. The elves shifted, uneasy with ignoring him, perhaps.

‘Master, if you will come with us, it is time to go.’

‘Of course.’

Parvon was led from his rooms to one of the smaller exits to the New Palace, one of the elves carrying his saddlebags, the other insisting on taking his bow from him.

‘Where is the convoy?’ he asked as they reached the doorway and the area was empty. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We are going to meet them now.’ The elf carrying his bow paused to pull Parvon’s hood down over his head. ‘This way now, Master.’

It was mortifying, to be marched through the forest with his hair covered, as if he were being led away in shame…

Worse, nobody was there to see him off, to say goodbye. He swallowed, suddenly on the edge of tears. This was unfair, unkind. He had done nothing wrong, and, even if he had, then this was still not the right way to treat him, leading him out in secret with his head covered…

…and nobody to send him on his way…

But at least he had Triwathon’s good wishes from the night before, that clasp of the shoulder, the warmth of his eyes…

They walked for almost an hour, parallel to the main trail from the New Palace while day broke around and above them, cold and bright. 

Finally, one of his escort called a halt. They handed back to him his bow and quiver and saddlebags.

‘The convoy will be here soon,’ one said, bowing. ‘We are meant to stay, and so we will not be far.’

‘But you might wish it to seem you are simply waiting, and were not escorted, for your pride’s sake,’ said the other, adding, ‘we hold you in only the utmost respect, Master, but orders from the king are not simply disobeyed, either for garrison guards or King’s Office advisors.’

Parvon found a stiff smile for them.

‘I thank you, then, for your courtesy.’

*

While he waited, he tried to get the better of his despondency, tried to talk himself into a better frame of mind. He’d done nothing wrong, it was just being implied that something had been not right; still a long way from an accusation. And while he was still devastated to be leaving his home and his work and his dear friend, he was still a servant of the king, of the forest, and so he pulled himself into some sort of composure and, if he had to put his formal working persona in place, at least he was no longer in danger of alarming his guards and embarrassing himself with weeping.

Presently he heard the soft noises of someone in the trees above and Narunir slithered down a near-by elm and bowed to him.

‘I’m heading the escort company,’ he said. ‘We guards have been told to treat you with formal distance, but nobody expressly forbade me from coming to greet you ahead of the convoy. Master Parvon, if it helps, it’s one of my young bloods you’re protecting with your silence. Those who know, we are grateful.’ He grinned briefly. ‘The fellow himself doesn’t realise the full extent of the damage he’s caused, but he’s suffered enough that he feels properly ashamed of himself, even though he’s done nothing wrong, not really.’

‘I know this,’ Parvon said. ‘My thanks, it isn’t always pleasant to follow orders.’

‘Indeed, Master Parvon. Well, I will back to the convoy. They will be within call soon; a horse has been brought for you... and you should have company, I seem to recall…?’

The two warriors from Hannith’s company emerged from the forest and stood to attention.

‘Good, so one of you, take Master Parvon’s saddlebags and fit them to the horse that’s bringing for him. I’ll come back with you. Good day, Master Parvon.’

‘And you, Captain Narunir.’

*

Alone with his one escort about to fade into the undergrowth, Parvon smiled. His formal persona was settled back in place now, the King’s Advisor in control. 

‘Wait with me, please,’ he said. ‘In my mind, you are an honour-guard.’

A nervous smile. No more words passing, but the mood felt easier and when the convoy arrived, Parvon nodded and bid his guard farewell.

Greeting his fellow-travellers, he was surprised at the welcome he had; apparently it was very kind of Master Parvon to leave his home just to make sure they settled in properly, and good of the king to spare him… and offers of, sit and eat the day meal with us, join us around our evening fire tonight, when we get home, you must come and visit… it all seemed very warm and kind. One of a cynical turn of mind could read it as currying favour, in case he might influence the choice of rooms they would be allocated, but it seemed to stem from something more.

‘For I remember you were in the forest when we lost so many, and so much,’ one elleth said with a sad smile. ‘I saw you helping carry someone’s child.’

‘I was simply doing my job,’ he said, although carrying elflings away from burning talain wasn’t really in a scribe’s expected duties. ‘We all were trying to help.’

Nods from around and he remembered; these were willing volunteers, those who wanted a new start away from the memories of dragons and flames, back inside the thick rock of the Old Palace with all its weight of history and endurance behind it. 

The party comprised four families and several solo elves who had kin waiting for them, a score or so of adults and elflings and youngsters, some of whom had minor injuries and one or two not yet able to walk, or to ride. Parvon wondered at that, for he knew how badly Master Erestor had been hurt and how long he’d been off his feet; some of the elves in the wagons must have been more seriously injured and yet they still wanted to leave…

…but he hadn’t, and yet here he was, on his way to the Old Palace in what felt like a defeat.

*

That evening, Narunir brought him a sealed missive as he sat around the camp fire.

‘I was told, sir, to wait until we were underway before handing you this,’ he said. ‘We’ve made good time today, considering; if the weather continues, we should be there in two more days.’

Two days more, and he would be back, trying to settle into his old rooms and his old life, and he knew the latter wouldn’t be a good fit…

‘Are you well, Master Parvon?’ an elleth asked. ‘You look a little fraught… oh, have you a place in a wagon for the night? If not, I think we can swing a hammock for you…’

‘It’s kind, Mistress, but I’ll be fine by the fire. No, it is simply work has followed me.’ He raised the sealed message pack. ‘I had thought to arrive home before I started, but it seems not.’

‘Ah, well, it is good to be busy, is it not?’ 

She turned away to attend to something one of her children had called out, and Parvon was left to examine the messages in peace. He had no way of knowing, of course, what the sealed pack contained, but he knew that he’d be left to look over the documents privately. It was too much to hope that Triwathon had sent a word or two…

…yes, it was too much to hope. Instead was a list of instructions; he was to be responsible for the resettlement of elves at the Old Palace, consulting where necessary with Master Baudh, who was nominally in charge of the rooms and ordering their upkeep, or Master Melion who was actually in charge of everything, these days…

He spent longer than was necessary pretending to read through the pages, and then settled into his bedroll and wished he could sleep the journey away.

*

Mostly, that’s how it felt; as if he were stumbling through the hours between patches of voices and food and spells of reverie, coming out of the numbness to be courteous and polite to those around him and then sinking back into himself, allowing his horse to pick him a path.

He came out of one of these spells of mental absence to find the wagons had halted and the elves, those who could leave their seats and pallets, had gathered around him. 

‘Master Parvon?’ The captain nodded towards Parvon, waiting for him to dismount and approach; he had noticed how Narunir addressed him with courtesy and precedence, as if he considered Parvon to be the leader of the company, as if it was his right. ‘I have made contact with the perimeter guards and they are passing word on to the Old Palace to prepare for our company and number; the healers have also been alerted that we have injured with us…’

‘I am grateful, Captain. And to you and your company, also, our thanks for your escort; we have had a safe journey, but knowing you were with us, beside us and in the canopy, helped us feel more at ease.’

‘It has been an honour to serve, Master Parvon. What would you, now? We’re about three hours out, given the trails and the wagons, so will you pause and rest your horses and yourselves for an hour, and arrive after nightfall, or press on and perhaps arrive before dusk settles?’

Parvon glanced at the elves around him, the families and fellow-travellers. He made a decision.

‘If our horses are willing, let us press on. And, Captain, as we make our final approach, will you give us a chorus or two?’

He took his time remounting so that he was at the back of the convoy and therefore away from the questions he’d seen lining up in the eyes of his travelling companions; where would they go, would their former homes be available to them? What of work, how should they go about supporting their families…? 

At present, he had no answers for them.

Of course, he had questions of his own and no answers for himself, either.

*

Thanks to Captain Narunir and his troop, they rolled over the narrow bridge to the sounds of ‘Heroes Coming Home,’ a favourite marching song with infinite capacity to fit any occasion. A welcome was waiting; a crowd of palace elves clustered near the gates, foremost amongst them Healer Gaelbes, nominally in charge of the Healer Halls when Nestoril was away. She came forward, her hands clasped together.

‘Well met,’ she called out. ‘If you will lead the wagons round, we have prepared for you in the Healers Hall – for all of you, so come round to the other gates…’

Parvon dismounted and gave his horse to be cared for, went to join the healer.

‘Well met, Healer Gaelbes.’

‘And you, Master Parvon. We thought if everyone came to us, then families will not be divided too soon, and there is plenty of room while people settle in again; I expect nobody has thought to send ahead and prepare rooms?’

Her smile was genuinely friendly, and Parvon nodded.

‘It’s a kindness. In fact, the change of plan that has brought me home happened so late that I do not know what arrangements may, or may not, have been made… but this is very thoughtful of you.’

‘And not all injuries manifest on the body,’ she said softly. ‘This gives me an unobtrusive way to observe if the physically hale are suffering without reminding them of the horrors they must have seen.’

He stayed to see the company welcomed into the Healers’ Hall, to watch the injured brought in and settled, to eat and drink from the tables set up in the open entrance hall with his former fellow-travellers, and then made to leave.

‘There are beds here for you tonight, so Healer Gaelbes tells me,’ he said to them. ‘I will go straight to the King’s Office and see what can be discovered about proper lodgings for you, but for now, allow yourselves the peace of the Halls.’

Gaelbes intercepted him on the way out.

‘There’s a room for you, as well, Master Parvon.’

‘I have my own rooms. It should not take much to bring them back into use…’ He broke off as he saw her shaking her head slowly. ‘Really, I have no needs such as my fellow-travellers do, I was not injured or disrupted…’

‘There have been changes, since you left, Master Parvon,’ she told him softly. ‘But Masters Melion and Baudh will be able to tell you more. In the interim, a private room has been set aside for you here.’

‘I am grateful,’ he said. ‘But I have no wish to put you to the trouble…’

‘No, and you are not. Besides, the changes may well have affected my other guests; your return from the King’s Office with more information will be required, I think.’

‘Very well. And it is not that I am ungrateful; quite the opposite, but…’ He broke off to shake his head. ‘No, I am most grateful. And I am not thinking properly; if I lodge apart from my travelling companions, then I seem not one of them. To be seen to be in similar circumstances can only save their feelings. And yet…’

‘And yet, indeed,’ Gaelbes said with a smile. ‘Well, I shall see you presently, then.’


	51. Unhomed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon makes his way to the King's Office...

‘Welcome home and well met, Master Parvon!’

Smiling, Master Melion stepped forward with his arms spread as if to offer a hug; Parvon took a hasty half-step backwards as he placed his own hand to his heart and bowed; that was the thing with Master Merenor’s family, they were extremely tactile and affectionate with their friends and relations, and, sometimes, with strangers.

Not that he and Parvon were strangers, of course.

Thranduil’s Chief Advisor and Elf-in-Charge of the King’s Office didn’t seem offended by Parvon’s reticence; instead, he turned his gesture into a sweeping bow and beckoned towards an open doorway.

‘Baudh! Come out and say hello to Master Parvon!’

‘Hello, Master Parvon!’ Baudh emerged from his workroom, smiling broadly. Possibly the least attractive of the Merenorion, he was still very well-favoured and the smile and eyes were typical of the family. ‘I hope the road wasn’t too bad?’

‘No, considering the time of year, my thanks.’

‘How is everyone?’

Parvon guessed that ‘everyone’ meant, more specifically, Baudh’s kin, and nodded.

‘Your Ada Master Merenor and his husband are well, and settling in to take charge of the Palace Office. Faerveren was delighted when his grandfather arrived, and while he now must stay in my stead, he feels well supported. Likewise, your brother Captain Canadion and his Thiriston are in good heart; uninjured during the dragon attack and spending time telling stories to the elflings.’

Baudh laughed.

‘That’s my brother, always loved storytelling! Well, you and I will be working together on the resettlement project, I understand, so that will be nice. It is almost time for the evening meal, we could eat together in the dining hall if you like…’

‘Baudh, leave Master Parvon alone,’ Melion said with a shake of his head and a smile. ‘He has not time for our silliness! Now, Master Parvon, if you would like to come with me, I will show you your new office, and we can talk a little, perhaps, if you’re not too tired?’

He led the way into a room which Parvon remembered had formerly been Master Hanben’s workroom; it was spacious, and had large, deep windows that looked out onto a small grassed area and the walls of natural stone beyond, presently black with nightfall. The darkness made him feel heavy of heart suddenly; considering Parvon had once been Chief Advisor to the King, the room was something of a comedown. 

He reminded himself it was better than a desk shoved into the corner of the main area and tried to be appreciative.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful for a room with windows… and aware that I’ve been foisted upon you, and in place of your son…’

‘He is happy and fulfilled in the New Palace; it was difficult for him to come to his own abilities here, surrounded by family who would help him whether he needs it or no,’ Melion said. ‘And it sounds as if he has flourished. But that aside – you are not unwelcome, Master Parvon, far from it – the first word I had was three hours ago when the perimeter guard’s message reached us and thus I have had little time to organise matters to welcome you! So, as Honour-Ada Hanben’s workshop was the best of the unoccupied offices… if you do not like it, we can find you something else in a few days.’

‘No, it is a good space,’ Parvon insisted. ‘I am more concerned, really, about accommodation… I hear the old rooms have been… what, closed up? Turned into storerooms?’

Melion spread his hands and sighed.

‘You have to bear in mind that the New Palace was to be our future as well as yours,’ he began. ‘All but a small proportion of the population were expected to move out, and on. Ithilien, your villages, the wider forest as it recovered and grew bright again; the Old Palace would become a staging post between the New Palace and Ithilien…’

‘Yes, although the latter stages of the process were still under discussion when I left.’

‘So, a reduced garrison, a smaller King’s Office… those who left for new lives, they no longer needed their rooms. Occupation was consolidated, the vacated corridors and areas closed up, put to storage. Including, unfortunately, your own rooms, Master Parvon. But of course, there is still plenty of liveable space, and as soon as we had your hawk we made a start, our king suggesting there may be a need to rehome people after the devastation. And so we have already begun preparing suitable new quarters for everyone… although Baudh would like a list, he says, of exactly each family and what it requires…’

‘At present the Healers are giving us shelter; Baudh will have his list in the morning. But already people are asking questions; what of their former chambers, how long will they be homeless? I need something positive to tell them, more than just…’

‘My instructions are to say that improvements to the infrastructure of the Old Palace have necessitated the closure of their rooms. Subsequent issues with the plans mean that the intended new accommodations were not finished, and since people were living elsewhere, left temporarily incomplete. But work has already begun…’

‘It’s not the truth, is it, however?’

Melion sighed again and ducked his head away.

‘I know, and it goes against everything I uphold for the King’s Office. But it was suggested to me that to tell the people that we had closed up their homes as if we no longer cared for them might seem unkind, although they had no thought of returning.’

‘They had not expected to return,’ Parvon had said softly. ‘They had lives and homes and fulfilling work, friends, and their days had taken on the shape they expected to keep to forever… and then because a message fails we are unprepared for dragons, and people die and their homes burn and our king decides the only way to keep us safe is to bring us all home whether we want to or not, Master Melion, and these with me are the willing ones, there are others who did not want to leave, to be ripped away from everything…’ 

‘And you are one of the unwilling, I think,’ Melion said, his eyes rich with sympathy. ‘So you understand how hard it is. I am sorry; our king does what he thinks is best for us, but…’

‘But sometimes he does not have all the information he needs…’ Parvon sighed. ‘I believe it was my friend and mentor Lord Arveldir who wrote that into the handbooks…’

Melion smiled.

‘Yes, indeed! And I hear he is at the New Palace – how is he?’

And Parvon had no strength to continue with his bitterness and pain, and so allowed the conversation’s progression to informality and friendliness – and it should not have surprised him, how friendly both Master Melion and Master Baudh were, but, of course, they were Merenorion, right down the gold-spun brown eyes and easy manners…

It had already struck him how different the mood of the King’s Office must be, with Merenor and his family in charge, and wondered what Arveldir would say, if he could see it. 

‘It is good to see you again, Melion,’ he said in a pause, and turned towards the doorway as a hint he was ready to leave.

‘Ah, I had almost forgotten; I am supposed to ask… My wife and I have plenty of room, you are welcome to lodge with us until suitable chambers are readied for you; we are grateful for the kindness our Faerveren has met with in the New Palace offices,’ Melion said, walking with him through to the main office and towards the doorway. ‘It was hard to let him go, even though he is just a few days away; I   
begin to see what my father suffered through the years he had to work away. But Faerveren loves his place there.’

‘He is another whose hopes will be disappointed, then, by this edict. Your son has been diligent and hardworking, and has risen to challenges I never expected him to have to face,’ Parvon replied. ‘A son to be proud of, indeed. And I am grateful for your invitation – but I think, for the sake of the refugees with me, I should go back to the Healer Halls tonight.’

*

Parvon made his way back and, after breaking bread with his fellow-travellers, held an impromptu meeting with them – or at least, those who were not restricted to beds for the moment. 

‘I have discussed our situation over with the King’s Office,’ he began. ‘It seems that while we have been away, a decision was made to create new and better dwellings for the Palace inhabitants…’

This wasn’t strictly true, of course; he hoped that the refugees would not think it odd that a place intended to be reduced in importance should have ‘improvements’ inflicted upon it; of course, it was not his doing, but he was, he supposed, officially King’s Office now and would be guilty by default… 

He pressed on with the explanation he’d been cautiously fed by Master Melion in the King’s Office.

‘…so the empty rooms were closed, or used for storage, while the new rooms were being prepared. But something – I am not quite certain what – interrupted the work and it was deemed necessary to begin again. Meanwhile, as it was seen we were settled and comfortable, other work, I gather, took precedence. However, as soon as the news came that there had been dragons, and that the New Palace was to be closed, work began again. The Healers say there is room for everyone in their Halls until such time as…’

‘Yes, Master Parvon, but… we have lost our homes,’ an elleth patiently explained. ‘And we expected at least our old places would be here for us. It is not fair…’

Parvon nodded and sighed.

‘I agree, it is most unfair. Nothing about this is fair, we did not deserve dragons, we did not deserve to lose friends and kin to fire and flame, and that I am here, and hale, is a matter I am grateful for, but I have no home either.’

‘You have kin, though, do you not?’

‘In fact, no. I have no family this side of the Sundering Seas these days.’ He made himself smile. ‘My brother’s name cannot be spoken and my parents sailed to await his restoration from the Halls of Mandos. My fellow-scribes and advisors are the only family I own.’

‘Well, it is some comfort to know that we are all in the same situation, Master Parvon,’ a second elleth said. ‘All of us unhomed. But at least we are not sleeping under the stars tonight; the cold I do not mind, but there is a tang in the air that suggests rain – or snow!’’

Parvon made himself smile as another elf came to ask what, exactly, had happened to their previous homes?

‘Improvements, apparently,’ he replied. ‘I am not yet certainly exactly what. But I have been allocated a desk in the King’s Office already and my first order of business will be to find out what accommodations are available, and whom they would suit. Until then, the Healers’ Halls are comfortable.’

‘Yes, but Master Parvon, we had access to a workroom under the trees, and a talan with sleeping space for five and living space as well; how can we change back to living under stone again?’

‘It will be difficult, I admit. But my instructions are that everyone is to be within the palace until his majesty our king says otherwise. However, I will speak to Master Melion tomorrow and ask if there are any free talain within the perimeter, but please understand I cannot go against the king’s orders. But now, mellyn-nin, if you will excuse me, it has been a long day for us all; I will bid you goodnight.’

He reached the room allocated to him and shut the door with relief; he was already beginning to regret refusing Melion’s offer of hospitality; it had been an uncomfortable meeting with the refugees, and for all he had tried to assure them all would be well, he couldn’t quite believe it himself…

But tomorrow was another day, and at least he had work to go to.


	52. New Quarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon seeks new accommodations for everyone...

Middle of the next morning, and Baudh took Parvon on a tour of the available quarters.

‘We have three all in this corridor,’ he said with his friendly grin as he opened a door. ‘They are all intended for small families; a couple with one elfling or none. They all have one living room, one sleeping chamber, and one hygiene annexe, with either widow or lightwell.’

The dwelling Parvon looked into had a lightwell pooling brightness onto the floor of what seemed to him to be a spacious room. A hearth, shelves and benches cut into the walls. But no furnishings. The sleeping room was smaller, but roomy enough for a couples’ bed and an elfling’s crib or a small pallet and had its own lightwell. A small area off held a washing cascade and other hygiene facilities.

‘There is but one pairing who bring an elfling, and I am not sure there is really space…’ he began, imagining the squawks of complaint at being crowded in from a couple used to the sky and leaves above, a talan with less actual space but feeling larger because it was not enclosed in stone and there was all of the forest for work areas and play areas. ‘However, the couples can have no reason to object.’

‘The basic standard is, if the elfling is so young he or she is not yet at lessons, they are not old enough to need their own room,’ Baudh said. ‘But come. The next corridor across have chambers for larger families…’

By the time they had finished, Parvon had a good idea of what was available and who the rooms would suit… although he was a little unsure as to whether the current homeless elves would agree with him.

He said as much to a sympathetic Healer Gaelbes over tea in the Healer Hall office before he passed on the news to the refugees.

‘They should, of course, be grateful for any new home and appreciative of your efforts,’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘But coming near to death may have made them querulous rather than grateful.’

‘There is also the vexed question of how to implement the installation of the elves; by priority, settling in the families with little ones, first? Or wait until there are rooms for all? But then, what of those elves who are injured, does that mean they will be left until last?’

‘That’s not an issue,’ the Healer said. ‘If they were well enough to travel, they are well enough to get to new rooms; I simply felt they would appreciate the sense of being slightly cossetted, after everything, and to make sure there were no hidden issues. But I think, all things considered, everyone has come through without lasting harm. And what of you, I hear nothing of your new rooms in all of this?’

‘Ah, a single elf who has few needs… I am happy to be put at the bottom of the list.’

*

But that would not do for good Master Baudh. When Parvon mentioned this to him after the break for the day meal, he laughed and became a whirl of activity.

‘No. No, no, no! We King’s Office elves have our own accommodations… I will have a nice room sorted out for you by tomorrow, just trust me. In fact, come with me now, we can see what might suite and I can show you my rooms…’

Melion looked up from his desk and cleared his throat; his brother laughed again.

‘Now, don’t be like that, Melion! Master Parvon, my brother thinks that because I don’t have a sweetheart at the moment, every handsome ellon I meet is in danger from me… but I promise you, I meant only that seeing my rooms may provide an example of how the rooms are set out. Although, if you are interested in making new friends, Mistress Merlinith’s Friendly Rooms are a good place to meet…’

‘You’re very thoughtful,’ Parvon said, inclining his head. ‘I do not think I have time to make new friends at the moment. But my thanks.’

‘Well, come, we have our own corridor between here and the royal wing, so that if his majesty needs us, we are convenient… it is also handy for the feasting hall…’

‘I think I know where you mean; the former guest quarters?’

‘Yes; we have better guest rooms now, improved…’

Baudh continued a lively explanation until they reached the former guest wing.

‘So, as we are mostly couples or singles in the King’s Office, the former guest rooms are of a good size for our needs; of course, brother Melion has a family of his own, and so we have joined two guest accommodations together and let out into a third room which was storage, so they are together without being too close, if you see… and this is my home, be welcome.’ Baudh opened the door with a flourish and gestured Parvon to enter. ‘Oh, good, the corridor servants have been through already; I wasn’t sure I’d left all tidy…’

A large living room, a sleeping chamber beyond, a bathing pool which had a washing cascade fitted; it all seemed more than adequate. 

‘Very pleasant,’ Parvon ventured. ‘Of course, I have seen these rooms before; I seem to recall the Seneschal of Imladris used these quarters when he stayed once?’

‘Do you know, I think you’re right? I hadn’t realised… well, imagine that… we were sorry to hear, of course; he was very handsome and a good friend to many here…’

‘Indeed. His loss will be felt by all of Middle Earth, but that he died for Silvans is especially humbling.’

‘Well… would you like to follow me? I was thinking you might not want to be next to the family confusion, and rooms on the other side of the corridor might suit you; Feren will be one of your neighbours… all this room needs is the washing cascade bringing up to standard; it’s one of the old style ones, you see, but we will add it to the piped network; it will only take a day or two…’

The room was wide and long and the sleeping area had a lightwell high in one wall and theoretically much better than his former, dark and cramped quarters had been. The hygiene area did, indeed, look tired and a little neglected; Parvon nodded and tried to feel enthusiastic for rooms not his own, however spacious.

‘Thank you, it will do very well. And I am content where I am until such time as all the rooms are ready for my fellow-travellers.’

‘If you’re sure? The work crews shouldn’t get in your way, most of the task will be bringing the pipework along…’

‘Really. One thing - is there a shared bathing pool for the corridor?’

‘You can share my bathing pool, Master Parvon.’

‘Thank you, no, Master Baudh. Although I will mention your generosity to Master Melion, if you like.’

Baudh grinned, not the least abashed.

‘You cannot blame me for trying, Master Parvon, but I would be grateful if you did not... And in return, I promise to behave.’

*

Melion seemed relieved when they returned from the tour.

‘There have been elves asking for you, Master Parvon, elves from the convoy… of course, it is part of your new duties to speak to them concerning resettlement, but at the same time, if they can accost you here and in the Healers’ Halls, you will have no peace! And it occurred to me – this cannot be easy for you, to come here and find me where you had been, so I am sorry if it is difficult for you…’

Parvon waved this away.

‘We follow our orders and our king wants it this way. No, it is not your fault. As for my friends from the convoy…’ He shrugged. ‘While I lodge with them, I am of them, so to speak. Once I leave the Healers’ Halls, I will become other than they… and for the moment, if it helps them, yes, I will allow them to seek me wherever and whenever… but I am grateful.’

‘Well, I had thought, after the day meal, I will take you round to meet the elves you will be dealing with; I expect you know them, but perhaps not in their current roles.

So Parvon spent the day reacquainting himself with elves such as Merlinith and Araspen who had taken over responsibility for providing bedding and cushions and rugs and wall hangings and who were old and dear friends, and new elves in new departments and subdivisions who would need to know the skills of the elves he’d brought, and what resources they would need…

It kept him busy all afternoon and on his return to the Healers’ Hall, he managed to slip through to his rooms unobserved and spend a quiet hour reflecting on the day… no, it had not been as bad as he’d feared; Melion and Baudh were welcoming, Baudh perhaps too much so, but it almost made him smile… and renewing his acquaintance with Mistresses Araspen and Merlinith had been pleasant; Merlinith’s practical, sensible kindness and Araspen’s quiet intelligence had provided a welcome break in the day.

‘You must visit us, once you are more at home,’ Araspen had suggested. ‘One evening, as a friend. And here, not in the Friendly Rooms, which are for more public conversation. It would be nice to see you.’

And he had agreed, and felt yes, he had friends here, where he had expected to be alone and shunned, somehow; whatever Thranduil’s intentions for Parvon’s reputation in the New Palace, it didn’t seem to have carried to the Old…

Gaelbes tapped on his door with a tray of tea and some honey cakes.

‘I am grateful, Gaelbes. Will you join me?’

‘My thanks, but no; I do not wish to disturb you,’ she replied, ‘and you have been at work all day. But my other guests have questions and I have only stopped them all coming to your door by promising to speak to you on their behalf…’

‘Thank you. I’ll come presently to the entrance hall, if I may, and talk to everyone then.’

*

Thus Parvon established the pattern of his days; living with his fellow-travellers in the Healers’ Hall, working in the King’s Office making lists and escorting his fellow-travellers around the rooms available, telling them firmly, this was all they could have… unless they wanted to wait and take it up personally with his majesty, when the king came home… and often that was enough to have them grumble and look again, and perhaps agree that the accommodations were nice enough, considering… and he would then sweeten the bitterness by telling them who to speak to about furniture and such, and set up meetings for them… and when, after four days of this, he finally had them all settled in, he allowed himself to take the keys to his new quarters.

He let himself in, put down his belongings, and looked around him… plenty of room, more than one person needed, really, the refurbished washing cascade looking smarter now, simple furnishings – work table and chair, settle in front of the fire, bed in the sleeping area and a coffer at its foot, shelves hewn into the walls… it was, undoubtedly, much better than his old, cramped quarters…

…but those had been his! He had put his mark on them over the years, had known every facet and face of the stone, known everyone on the corridor… this was not home…

He shook his head. This would not do! It was his duty to set a good example to the other elves, who had also lost their homes… well. 

Carrying his saddlebags and pack through to the bedroom, he unpacked and soon had everything – everything, all he needed for his new life here, although he hadn’t wanted a new life! – put away and was contemplating what to do with himself, whether it was too early to set off for the feasting hall, or whether to sit and look at the room for a while, when a knock at the outer door reached him.

Nobody there when he opened it, but a parcel on the table outside the door intended for such things. Curious, for he wasn’t expecting anything, much less a soft and squashy package, he took it in and opened it to find a folded blanket made from squares of worked wool and a cushion with matching cover; they were worked in soft greens and gentle browns and a friendly little note proclaimed there was nothing for making a room seem homely like soft furnishings, and Mistresses Araspen and Merlinith hoped he would like their little gift.

He smiled. Perhaps it would take more than a cushion or two to make this place a home, but the kindness of the gift certainly made him feel better.


	53. To Make a Home...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arveldir and Erestor talk of leaving the New Palace, and in the Old Palace, Parvon has a letter...

‘I thought you would like to know, before our plans are made public, that Erestor and I are leaving soon,’ Arveldir said.

Triwathon looked up from his seat at Arveldir’s fireside and glanced from his former mentor to Erestor and back again.

‘Really?’ he asked, swirling the spirits in his glass. ‘When, exactly? It is but that I thought you would be here a week or more yet…’

Arveldir glanced at his spouse with a smile, and Erestor nodded and explained.

‘You were probably listening to good Healer Maereth; she would like, I think, to see me prove my fitness by racing through the canopy around the watch flets! But I am well enough to ride, if not to climb, and if I am not entirely recovered, then I think my full recuperation will not take place until I am at home and the burden of news has been shared out.’

‘I understand. I… am sorry you have to bear this task.’ Triwathon sighed. For him the worst of the grief was beginning to pass now, at last, with so much happening to demand he stir himself and make himself function, but he could still see the loss etched into Erestor’s face, his fine features saddened, sorrowing. ‘And I am sorry for those who have yet to learn it. What chance your Galadhrim friends will speak of it?’

Arveldir shook his head.

‘I doubt they will reach Imladris ahead of us; they are on foot now, and we will be mounted. But if it were so, then… I do not know, they would not speak of him as we would, but it might be easier in some ways…’

‘Yet rather I would have it to do myself, and find it difficult,’ Erestor put in. ‘To hear such tidings from those who barely knew our friend would lie ill with me.’

Triwathon nodded. Yes; he could understand that; having been present, having actually held Glorfindel in his arms… and difficult though it had been, how much harder it would have felt to learn of his death from another, even a sympathetic friend!

‘We intend to set out tomorrow,’ Arveldir said. ‘It will be a long road, but eventually, we will come to its end.’

‘I would ride escort with you, if I could, but our king has already said I am needed elsewhere… I am not sure I really am, but…’

‘But he is the king.’

‘And, what’s more, I was caught out attempting to imaginatively interpret his orders on the day the convoy left… I dare not try such a thing again…’ Triwathon gave a rueful grin. ‘Sadly, I was halted before I could wave my friend Parvon goodbye, but at least I had seen him the night before.’ He lifted his cup. ‘This was one of his parting gifts; it seemed appropriate to share with you.’

‘Then we are doubly grateful,’ Arveldir said. ‘Perhaps, when you write to Master Parvon, you will pass on our good wishes.’

‘Of course.’

*

Write to Parvon…? 

The thought had not occurred to him, and if he did, would his letter not get deselected from the messages for the Old Palace? And what would he say, in any case? 

But the notion kept recurring; as he settled for the night, as he broke his fast in the garrison, during his work at the damaged villages… at one point, he was interrupted in his musings by a voice nearby.

‘Work progresses, I see.’

‘Sire!’ Startled to hear his king’s languid tones, he left off the work he was doing to turn and bow; Thranduil, mounted on his elk, was watching from the edge of the Heart Glade. ‘Yes, my king, here at Elm we have nearly completed our work. Oak is further on in its restoration…’

‘I have come from thence,’ Thranduil said in bored tones. ‘And am on my way now to Ash. It is regrettable the Galadhrim did not do more before they left… and yet perhaps they had done quite enough, would you say?’

‘I think some of their ritual practices are not for us, my king.’

Thranduil barked out a laugh.

‘Ha! Quite. Well-said, Commander. How long do you think before the work is done?’

‘That’s not simple to estimate, my king. To clear away the damage done by the fire, to take out the pipework and to return any salvage back to the palace in Oak, a day or two, here it will be longer… Ash has needed more work and I think is most damaged… really, Captain Narunir would be able to tell you more accurately than I…’

‘Indeed? Then you need to spend more time at the villages and less in the New Palace. Very well. I want end-of-day reports from each of the three villages, brought to me personally, and directly, not left for the Palace Office to distribute, do you hear?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Very well. Do not let me interrupt your work further; you have much to do. Oh, incidentally, the talain should be disassembled as well, I have decided. No scrap of habitation is to remain. See to it that this is passed to the other captains.’

‘Sire.’

And just like that, the workload was doubled...

*

Back in his rooms that night, Triwathon began a letter which he had little hope of seeing delivered, and so it was a rambling, untidy sort of letter – not in the scripting, for he wrote with a neat, precise hand, the letters flowing easily and tidily from his pen – but in the change of topic, the jumps and starts.

_“…today I have new orders, to remove every sign of habitation from the three villages, down to the last talan screen… one could speculate that this is to make the villages even less appealing to any former residents, but officially it is to create a tranquil and calm environment suited to the memories of those whose remains are still undiscovered… but whatever the reason, it falls to me to now take day reports direct to the king… I have already spoken to Master Faerveren so that his feelings are not hurt… now, I do not mean that unkindly, but he does take things to heart so! At least he has his loving grandfather to shield him from rough soldiers like me… Our friends Arveldir and Erestor and the rest of the Imladris elves have left us; I shall miss our friends the Advisors… the horse Asfaloth is carrying Rusdir’s nephews as they ride them home…”_

*

_“…as they ride them home…”_

Parvon found himself smiling. This was the third time he’d read the letter, and it was just like his happier days in the New Palace used to be, punctuated by random conversations with Commander Triwathon. He crossed his legs at the ankles and adjusted the crocheted cushion behind his head, pulling the reading lamp closer to his side.

_“…so this is the fourth day now that I have sat down to add to this message and I do not really know why it draws me still… well, this evening I have real news. His majesty has announced that he will leave for the Old Palace within the week; he wishes to see the final deconstruction of the villages for himself before he departs, he says. At the same time, the next convoy will leave for the Old Palace, and you will be hearing from the Palace Office with regard to the number and needs of the next group of refugees although, of course, we will need you to send the wagons back first… Master Merenor has agreed to put my ramblings under the same seal but marked for your personal attention, and I am grateful, for I had wondered whether or not there would be problems trying to write to you…”_

He shifted position so he could reach for a beaker of wine at his side. The rooms were starting to feel like his now, and the letter from Triwathon felt like the finishing touch, a welcome home each time he picked up the pages. He read on.

_“…Oh, and I had a conversation with our favourite corridor servants this morning. One, Haechor, I think it was, casually asked whether they would be needed now the horses from Imladris were gone… I offered him and his friend a transfer at once, if they would – down to the Old Palace where they would find not only plenty of horses and some elk, but the donkeys for the narrow carts and Mistress Araspen’s experimental goats (I do hope she still has them!). He quailed and ducked his head and said, if I was not busy, he would like the honour of a private talk with me… you will never believe it, he and his friend turned up outside my office at the time I had suggested, and proceeded to confess all… they gave me the full details of the corridor conversation to which you were a party, and apologised most handsomely, and said, actually, they didn’t mind the horses, just they were on mucking out duty all the time… so now they are part of the proper rota of yard duty and both seem delighted with the change; Iochon is a wonder with the saddle soap, so I am told, and Haechor likes grooming and braiding the horses… who would have guessed…?”_

Parvon wriggled his shoulders down into the cushion and read the last of the letter.

_“…hope this has found you well and you’re settling in. Arveldir sent his best wishes to you. Be well, Parvon._

_“Your friend, Triwathon.”_

Even though Triwathon was at the northern reach of the forest, the letter had brought him into Parvon’s rooms, a presence of sorts. Parvon set down the letter and sat up to glance around, imagining inviting Triwathon in, showing him round, imagining his response… 

Yes. Perhaps all that was needed to make a home was a friend to share it with, however they might be present.


	54. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon has a letter from Parvon, writes back, and Parvon replies...

When Parvon found himself beckoned into Master Melion’s private office the next morning, he wondered whether the arrival of his letter from Triwathon had been noted, and if this was to be some kind of discouragement… but instead, it seemed to just be logistics.

‘There is word that the king will return with the next group of elves,’ Melion began. ‘Although Healer Nestoril is staying to help with the injured who are not yet fit to travel. The wagons from the first convoy must go back, with such of their escort guard as are not staying here… there is to be a slow attrition from the New Palace garrison, I gather, but we need not concern ourselves with that… here is a list appended that is for you, though, of those who are coming with the next convoy…’

‘Thank you, that is most helpful. Healer Gaelbes has suggested that for the first night, the new arrivals should stay in her Halls, where they can eat and settle gently back into being here; if they arrive late in the day, too, it means there is less urgency to rehome them immediately and it gives the Healers a chance to make sure all is well with them.’ 

‘Yes; I thought the list will give you chance to talk with Baudh about where to put everyone first, and perhaps when the rooms are offered, make it plain there is no choice; it is this or a ship, I know, it is severe, but it is his majesty’s wording…’

‘I will try to find a more tactful way of expressing it.’

Melion grinned.

‘If anyone can, you can, Master Parvon! My brother has been regaling me with the gentle rejections you give to his flirting; he says often it is not until hours later that he realises he’s been subtly reprimanded… if he is a nuisance, I can tell him to stop…?’

Parvon shook his head, smiling.

‘I think it is more that he is being excessively friendly, and does not know how to temper his manner,’ he said. ‘It is almost a game to me now, to find a way to abash him and yet keep him smiling. But he means no harm, and I am certainly not offended.’

‘That’s a relief!’ Melion sounded genuinely glad to hear it. ‘He is just sometimes… not an asset to the decorum of the King’s Office… and that minds me, there have been several enquiries for the Division of Matters Matrimonial of late, but with my father away for so long, I do not know whom to suggest they talk to; Baudh is obviously too flighty, but…?’

Finishing with a lift of tone and a tilt of the head, it seemed Melion was rather hoping Parvon would offer… he shook his head quickly.

‘You need someone with marital experience, I think,’ he said. ‘Someone who has taken vows, or at least has found someone to be happy with… why not you, Master Melion?’

‘Because the very happiness and longstanding of my marriage might make people think I have no understanding of their difficulties…’

‘Ah. Then I would suggest Mistress Araspen…’

‘What…?’

‘Or her wife; both ladies were single for a long time before they found each other; in fact, Mistress Araspen was almost manoeuvred into a vows-for-elflings arrangement with an ellon she did not care for. Merlinith is known as being steady and sensible, but Araspen has a keen understanding and personal experience of the difficulties of waiting for one’s fëa-mate despite extreme opposition. Of course,’ he added with a smile. ‘There is no-one quite like Master Merenor for giving surprisingly good advice.’

‘That’s true. Well, thank you; do you know, that’s actually a good idea; I will speak to the ladies and see if either are interested. Ah, and the wagons go back tomorrow, so if you have any letters to send, they can safely go in the general despatch folder, if you like, or with Captain Narunir…?’

Parvon stared at Melion, but the elf just gently and shook his head.

‘Whichever suits you, of course, depending on where your letters are intended. Now, moving on. You may not know, but these days when he is here, our king dines in the Feasting Hall most nights. Usually Master Hanben and I oversee matters for him, but of course, my Ada-in-Honour is away. The king has expressed it as his opinion that neither Baudh nor Feren can preside adequately and so it will all fall, of course, to me… it would be most helpful if, on occasion, I could pass the duty across to you, perhaps…?’

Parvon took a moment to respond.

‘I am more than willing, of course; it is work I have done often, but… I am not sure putting me in company with our king is a good idea at present…’

‘You may stand behind his chair, then, and then he will not be able to see your delighted expression…’ Melion offered. 

‘I meant rather, I am not sure he would be pleased to have my assistance. Otherwise, of course I would attend him… although if a convoy has just arrived, I would be needed to settle in the arrivals perhaps.’

‘You do yourself a disservice; I am sure his majesty will be happy to have your help. Well, when I say happy… it may not show…’ Melion grinned. ‘I’ll check, ahead of time. And it will not be each night, simply once in a while… and, besides, it will help fill your evenings…’

Because, of course, Melion had a wife, a brother, a grown-up daughter or two while Parvon’s evenings were empty…

*

But he filled the evening easily enough that night...

_“Dear Triwathon,_

_“It sounds as if I have not been the only one disrupted…_

_All is well, here, those I travelled with are now settling into their new accommodations. I have a new dwelling myself, pleasant enough and spacious… it took me a little while to adjust, as I had assumed I could take up my former quarters; however, all the old rooms having been put to other use, this was not to be. However, Captain Narunir assures me that the garrison is pretty much as it was, and the billets there and in the warrior quarters have been kept unmolested…_

_“As for me, I am spending tomorrow evening with Mistresses Merlinith and Araspen, who are as friendly as ever; I will enquire as to the experimental goats. Also friendly are my associates in the King’s Office – Master Baudh particularly so. He is much like Master Merenor, but without the check of having a husband to keep him within bounds. We have agreed that I am not interested in his charms, but that does not stop him flirting – I honestly do not think he realises he is doing it! However, his brother Master Melion makes sure he is not too outrageous… but Baudh makes me laugh, at least…”_

He continued on, putting as good a light as he could on the changes at the Old Palace and his own situation which, really, wasn’t that bad, was it? Not if Melion was willing to give him additional duties which would bring him directly to the king’s notice…

_“…so this will come to you courtesy of Captain Narunir, and may it find you well! Thank you for passing on Lord Arveldir’s remembrance; I am grateful, although I am sorry I was unable to bid he and Erestor farewell…"_

*

Triwathon carried the letter with him inside his jerkin, where he could return to it in thought or in actuality during the private moments of his time; it was important, as commander of the garrison, to keep abreast of matters in the Old Palace as well as the New, after all.

Not that there were many quiet moments for him; the return of the carts and preparations for the next journey with the king at its head entailed work by garrison and palace alike; Thranduil wanted to make a detailed inspection of the area around the three former villages to ensure they were utterly uninhabitable and, indeed, completely eradicated, removed from the forest as surely as if they had never existed. New markings were needed along the trails to designate what they were told to call the Memorial Zone in order to keep people out; there were still, somewhere, potentially elven remains lying undiscovered and until it was certain the forest had taken them into its heart, Thranduil did not want anyone accidentally disturbing the area.

_“…which means more work for the garrison, blazing the markers and setting up watch positions, since Thranduil is not entirely sure that some of the former residents of Oak, Ash and Elm, will properly understand his wishes and therefore may yet stray into the area…” Triwathon wrote at the end of a long day, the night before the return convoy was due to depart. “Which minds me, in a roundabout sort of a way… I was in the Palace Office earlier today, when in marched – or, really, lurched, for he was on crutches still – one of the village seniors. Now, to digress, do you recall how, when we were trying to establish safety protocols for the village communities, the seniors and elders were always complaining we were curtailing their freedoms, imposing our will on their lifestyles? And then when the dragons came, they blamed us for not getting to them faster, for not making sure they were close enough for safety? Well. He was one of those elves, and he started shouting as soon as he entered the office where was Master Parvon, it was all his fault... Poor Faerveren quailed and so I suggested our talk might be better conducted in the inner office, so we fled, and Master Merenor stepped forward._

_“‘Dear me,’ he said, ‘you do seem upset! Why do you not sit down and tell me what the matter is, you’ll feel better for sharing it, I am sure…’ so Faerveren and I watched in astonishment from around the door as Merenor soothed every bluster, nodded kindly, and completely unbalanced the poor fellow so that by the time he was leaving, he was actually apologising for causing any bother…!_

_“You can imagine, can you not, the scene…? the ellon complaining and Master Merenor patting his arm and making little kindly noises, completely focussed on the diatribe… Are you laughing yet? I hope so! Better, when the elf did get up to go and Merenor escorted him out, he looked back over the elf’s shoulder to where we were watching and gave Faerveren the most outrageous wink and grin… who almost dissolved into a fit of giggles before the door was shut! But it made me think – perhaps that was another reason why you were sent away; so that the elves could not blame you for this as well as everything… it is, perhaps, small comfort…”_

*

Parvon, reading the letter after he’d seen the new arrivals settled with Gaelbes at the Healers’ Hall, did indeed laugh at the thought of Merenor turning on the charm… and he considered Triw’s suggestion, that perhaps he’d been sent away to spare him the unrighteous anger of some of the villagers… it didn’t help, not really, but… but at least he was feeling useful now; arriving back at the Old Palace against their wishes, the new arrivals had seen him as a familiar, friendly face.

There was a little more to the letter, and so he took it up again.

_“…Narunir is a little disappointed that Hannith gets the next convoy; he says he enjoyed the forest on the way down, but not as much on the way back with fewer warriors… still, those guards who have stayed with you in the Old Palace have kin there, they are not alone and will settle quickly to home duty… oh, and I have another story for you, but I think it had best wait until my next letter…_

_“I hope you are well, and keeping busy, but not being made to be too busy!_

_Be well,_

_Your friend Triwathon.” ___

*

Parvon wrote back.

_“Dear Triwathon,_

_“Yes, Master Merenor is incorrigible! I am glad he was there to deflect anger away from my poor assistant – former assistant, I should say, and thank you for shielding him yourself…_

_“So, it seems we are falling into a pattern; the wagons arrive, usually late, at dusk or even after nightfall, then next day they are emptied and tidied and filled with such goods as are needed at the New Palace, and return the morning after that, by which time I have usually got those who arrived in them settled in new accommodations. It does not always go easily; many object to having stone over their heads, and so our king has had it put on the notice boards, actually on the boards, that the alternative to accepting the rooms prepared is to accept a place in Ithilien, if Legolas will have them, or on a ship… and since many of these elves are traditionalists even by Silvan standards, and Legolas is seen to be ‘progressive’, I doubt there will be many settlers there… but this has led to new duties for me; if any wish to take sail, it is me to whom they are directed… at present, I am just taking names and offering advice; only once there seems to have been enough interest to fill a ship will I need to do more than this… our king thought I would be good for the task since, as he delighted in reminding me, I had once ‘expressed an interest in sailing to the Undying Lands…’ and it would be ‘good research’ for me to 'explore the topic thoroughly’…_

_“Sometimes I despair of our king’s sense of humour…_

_“Now, what is this other tale you have for me? I have been all agog since your last letter… do tell me!_

_“Hoping all is well with you,_

_“Your friend, Parvon.”_

*  
Parvon didn’t actually mind his extra duties, and, especially once the initial meeting with Thranduil was over, he felt they had established a wary understanding…

He had been sent for within an hour of the convoy’s arrival, summoned to Thranduil’s study, rather than a formal audience room, which in itself was a good sign.

‘Really, Master Parvon,’ the king had said, after discussing Parvon’s evident suitability to assist elves who wished to sail, ‘If you had a sense of humour, such as your former master Arveldir owned, and if you did not take offence so easily, I would quite enjoy your presence…’

Parvon had bowed.

‘I believe I did have a sense of humour once, sire,’ he replied. ‘But, alas, I think I lost it during my journey down from the New Palace…’

Thranduil had give a flash of a smile which he hastened to suppress.

‘There, you see. That is much better. Now, moving on…’


	55. Thindorion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon has an interesting interview...

As the days passed, it did seem to Parvon that he and the king had moved on to a better understanding. Since Thranduil’s return, Parvon had successfully presided for the king in the Feasting Hall and been invited to sit in on a breakfast meeting.

‘Not that you will be expected to take the day meetings,’ Melion had told him. ‘But just in case the order of running has changed since you were last here…’

The only difference that Parvon could see was that Melion brought a friendlier touch; meetings with him involved had a lighter, less formal air, and his bright smile was frequent as he considered the list of items under discussion, moving on when he considered enough time spent, whether the king had finished or no. If Thranduil’s mouth seemed to Parvon set in a displeased line at what could be seen as interruption, it didn’t show in the king’s tone, although he thought he detected a sigh now and then.

At the end of the meeting, Thranduil dismissed Melion with a nod, but waved to Parvon.

‘Stay a moment. I have a question for you, Master Parvon…’

‘Yes, my king?’ 

Thranduil waited unto Melion had closed the door behind him.

‘Tell me, Parvon, do you think, perhaps, Arveldir would like his former position back?’

Parvon hid a smile.

‘I think he is happy as he is, sire, with his husband and his work in Rivendell. I understand, too, that he does not intend riding back with the starlight gemstone used to honour the late Seneschal of Imladris…’

A sigh. ‘I thought as much. Parvon, it is some comfort to me that you, at least, are single.’

‘I do not quite see… yet that my loneliness is of service to you must be of solace to me, sire, I suppose. But Master Baudh is equally unattached…’

‘Presently so.’ Thranduil bit out the words. ‘Baudh is… unsettling. And Master Melion smiles too much; breakfast is far too early in the day to be constantly grinning while one sweeps away any due consideration for the matter in hand. It may be that you find yourself required to take on more duties.’

‘As my king desires.’

‘What I desire is for Arveldir to miss his old home so much that he return to the forest, bringing his spouse with him if he must. This conversation is confidential, do you understand?’

‘Yes, my king.’

*

‘…I have been thinking,’ Melion said a day or two later. ‘Talking things over with our king. He reminded me that you used to oversee the order of the public audiences. You did, did you not, after Arveldir retired to Imladris?’

‘Indeed so, when they were held monthly,’ Parvon had replied cautiously, for he could see where this was leading. ‘And Master Merenor took over from me when I began at the New Palace… and I gather it was then decided to make them weekly events so they did not last as long…’ 

‘That’s good, because – and this comes from the king himself, not that I do not think you are more than suited to the task… perhaps you would take up the responsibility…? Not all the time, just… it seems at present, most of the querents wish to discuss matters of the New Palace, of settling in here… things with which you are already familiar and so you may be able to persuade more of them not to bother him but to bother the King’s Office instead…’

‘I think I could do that,’ Parvon agreed cautiously; he knew, for he could see, and hear, what went on in the outer office, that Melion was working just as hard as he was, had also had extra work loaded onto him from the king’s decision to remain at the Old Palace and deconstruct the New, and so was not surprised that the extra, extra work -which of course had to go somewhere – had alighted on his desk. He was more surprised, and flattered even, that he was thought able to take on so much. ‘Will they return to monthly audiences, as was in my day, or…?’

‘Oh, I do wish!’ Melion grinned. ‘No, our king likes this new arrangement, he says it means he is in more immediate contact with his subjects… or, if you like, they don’t have weeks to allow things to rankle so they are not in such fraught condition when they finally get to see him… of course, because he’s been away, I expect a lot of elves will just want to make sure he’s home, and while they could do that quite easily in the Feasting Hall, for some, it’s not enough; tomorrow, our king says, we will start then, and I will work with you so that together we will get them sorted out in good time…’

*

It was almost, but not quite, a melee. It was certainly a bit of a scrum. Scores of elves were present outside the Hall of Audience, and all pressed forward with their urgent need to speak to the king. Melion calmed them, brought Parvon to their notice. He, taking stern hold of his King’s Office persona, lifted his head to survey them with all the authority of his status.

‘If it is to do with sailing – come and see me afterwards. If it is about settling in Ithilien – leave word with Master Feren in the King’s Office. If it is to do with new accommodations – see me afterwards, unless it is about an issue or fault with the fabric of the rooms, in which case, see Master Baudh. If it is just that you want to know your king is well, come to the Feasting Hall tonight and use your eyes… is there anything else…?’

At the end of the session, by which time only four elves had actually stayed to speak to the king, Melion threw a companionable arm across Parvon’s shoulders.

‘Admirably done, mellon-nin! All is done, and there is still an hour and more until the day-meal! You see, you have still all the authority of the office and they attended to you first time, while with me, it takes a few attempts…’

‘Ah, well, that’s what happens when you’re as friendly and approachable as are you,’ Parvon said, smiling. ‘When you’re remote and formal, people take fewer liberties…’

‘But you learned from the master, Lord Arveldir himself; my training was much kinder! Well, and we are done here. Back to the office?’

*

Back to the office.

Parvon riffled through the papers on his desk and began, in his mind, to idly wonder when, exactly, the next convoy would arrive; if they’d left according to plan, and made steady progress, it should be some time later that day… potentially towards evening, which seemed to be typical… or maybe sooner, if the trails were good and the injured weren’t in too much discomfort… this should be the last convoy with wounded, though, he thought, and as Healer Nestoril hadn’t been part of the king’s convoy, perhaps she would be travelling with them this time… anyway, either today or tomorrow he ought to have a letter from Triwathon to keep him company…

At present, there was an inevitable ebb and flow to his workload; a convoy arrived, he settled the elves in, the wagons went back… the level of activity in his day gradually diminished as the elves amalgamated with the Old Palace again and then surged with the next arrivals, so activities such as overseeing the public audience would, at least, fill some of the slow time.

A knock at his open door and he looked up to see an elf smiling at him. 

‘Master Parvon? I am told you are the elf to speak to about taking ship…?’

Broader than some, taller than most with shining pale hair that harked back to Sinda blood, a confident expression and an assured stance; not warrior build, nor an archer’s frame… but there were many elves in the Old Palace and Parvon had been away for two decades; he sought for a name, but it didn’t spring to mind.

‘That’s right.’ Parvon continued talking in the hopes he would remember this elf, who he was sure he ought to recognise… ‘At present we are really just taking names, finding out who wishes to go and for what reason… there is no intent to dissuade, you understand, but it might have bearing on future policy… now, will you take a seat…?’ Ah, that was it! He had him now; formerly a friend of Triwathon’s first lover, the poacher… not the way to phrase it to his elf, of course, but… ‘Master Thindorion, is it not?’

The elf smiled warmly.

‘It is so, and you know me!’

‘I know of you, rather. Now, you wish to take ship…?’

Thindorion nodded.

‘Yes – since the Battle Under the Trees, I have felt the forest is distancing itself from me, somehow; I do not know, maybe it is I am retreating. But they say this is the Age of Men, and as I have more people waiting across the Sundering Seas than I do here, and as I have heard others are contemplating the same journey, it seems a good time to consider it.’

‘What do you do here, Thindorion, of late?’

‘Of late?’ The elf exhaled, thinking. ‘Attached to one of the sewing rooms that makes warrior garb – I dye the fabrics and leathers for some of the uniform components. Before that, I was just a dyer of cloth, worked out along by the river. So I am not worried by the thought of water.’

Parvon made a note of this. No elf who wished to sail would be refused a ship, but it was important to log what talents were sailing with their owners to the Undying Lands so that knowledge and skills would not be lost; dyers, he understood, were not exactly common.

‘Have you, by chance, an apprentice who knows your trade…?’

‘I’ve taught three in my time, good fellows all, able to pass on the knowledge, don’t worry. It’s not as if we’re archers, thick as leaves on the home tree, but there’s enough of us.’

‘That’s good to know. It may be a little time, you understand, before a ship is ready; we have written to Ithilien to ask them to prepare a vessel but…’

‘Ithilien? But… do not the ships go from the Grey Havens?

‘Ah… did you not know?’ Parvon frowned; he had thought it common knowledge… but then, the matter of sailing wasn’t exactly a common topic so perhaps that was why… ‘The vessels in which we sail are made in Ithilien, and launch from there, running down the Anduin and out across the seas...’

‘But I had expected to leave from the Grey Havens…’

‘It may be possible still to use that route, of course; I understand there are elves who still use Imladris as a way-point, but with Prince Legolas and his company so close to the Great River, it seems needlessly complicated. Of course, if you really wished to sail from Lindon, I doubt anyone would seek to prevent you; there would be a welcome for you at Rivendell, I am sure, but you would likely travel alone across the mountains first…’

‘No, it is simply… well, I’ve a friend in the New Palace, I was expecting to be able to wish him well on my way west. I… no, Ithilien is not a problem; it would be easier. But… will our king indulge my wish to visit the New Palace? I understand people are being brought home… back, that is, to the Old Palace…’ Thindorion shook his head. ‘And I wished to see my friend first, we have known each other for such a long time…’

‘How soon could you be ready?’ Parvon asked, ready to be sympathetic to any who wished to say farewell to a friend long missed. ‘That is, there is a convoy expected and the wagons rest for a day and then return. If you were part of the return crew – and I think all you would need to do is offer your services and you would be taken on – then I see no problems. You could then return with the following convoy, if it suited you.’

Relief on the elf’s face.

‘Thank you, you are very kind! Whom should I seek?’

Parvon shook his head.

‘Come back tomorrow; I will have letter of recommendation written for you to give to the escort guard. Of course, I hope you can either care for horses or shoot straight; there will be little need for a dyer on the wagons.’

‘I can; in my young days, I had a friend who was a keen archer, he showed me a few tricks. Sadly, I can’t name him for you, but he was good. Well, my thanks; I will go out to the practice ranges this afternoon and see if I can brush up my skills indeed.’


	56. Nestoril Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the next convoy arrives, bringing elves, a letter for Parvon, and Nestoril...

It was an hour past the day-meal when word came the convoy had been spotted, and so Parvon knew he had two or three hours to make ready for the new arrivals. He consulted with Baudh and put tentative names beside the list of rooms readied before going to speak with Healer Gaelbes.

‘They will be earlier than usual!’ she said, smiling. ‘And I understand that this convoy brings those who are almost healed now; it should be simple, today.’

‘Let us hope.’ Parvon smiled. ‘Do you still want to offer them hospitality overnight?’

‘I think I ought to; and yet, if they arrive tired and do not have anywhere to go, they might be more amenable to the rooms you offer them…?’

‘Well, yes. Although the rooms may not be habitable immediately; I’ve requested furnishings be installed, but have yet to learn the work’s been completed. Once I hear the convoy is in, I will give you an hour with the new arrivals; by then I will know about the rooms – and I will come to talk to them myself, if that suits?’

‘Thank you, Parvon; that is an excellent idea!’  
*

It suited Parvon’s purpose, too; it meant he had a little time to look over the dispatches with Melion and accept the sealed letter handed to him with a smile. Time to retreat to his office and break the wax with trembling fingers, to scan the words; the greeting first…

_“Dear Parvon, I hope this finds you well…”_ and skimming down to the ending: _“Be well, Parvon… Your friend, Triwathon…”_ before folding the letter away; he had work to do, and so the rest of the letter must keep.

But it was there for when he had time.

In order to facilitate the moving-in of the refugees with the minimum of delay, Parvon and Baudh had agreed the rooms should be furnished to a basic standard; if people didn’t like what was there, it could be changed later, but meanwhile they would have beds to lie on and chairs to sit on and could move in swiftly, rather than taking up the resources of the Healers’ Hall for longer than needed; thus Parvon’s immediate task was an inspection of the rooms, making sure the right number of beds where put in place for the correct number of persons, and that the colours of the rugs were not too hideous. To his relief, all was in place, the last bed being assembled when he looked in the final room on his list.

‘Just finishing now, Master Parvon!’ the chief of the work crew told him. ‘Not late, are we? I thought it was tomorrow you wanted it ready for?’

‘No, not late; I merely wished to see how the rooms looked. But this is very fine, my thanks to you all.’

Satisfied that the rooms passed muster, and noticing with surprise that it was already time for him to present himself to the new arrivals, he made his way to the Healers’ Halls.

*

‘Look who is come!’ Gaelbes said, grabbing Parvon by the arm and almost dragging him into the communal area. ‘Nestoril is here, she is, indeed!’

‘Healer Ness! Welcome home… do you think you have been missed, at all?’

Nestoril shook her head and came forward laughing to take Parvon’s hands in a gesture of friendly greeting.

‘Parvon, forgive my friend, I cannot quite believe how warmly I have been welcomed…’

‘Well, it is good to see you, Healer,’ he told her, unable to help smiling back. ‘You will be proud of your friends; Gaelbes has been wonderful with our recent arrivals…’ He glanced across at Gaelbes. ‘In fact, forgive me, it is they whom I really have come to speak to; are they well, do you know?’

‘I would say so… and yet it has felt like a long road for some and they are glad to come to the end of it. I am glad that Gealbes has prepared for them to stay here tonight…’ An arch look suggested to him that Nestoril had heard, and amended, Gaelbes’ suggestion that the travellers move into their rooms at once. ‘…and we will dine together here, will you be joining us?’

‘If I am still welcome, after I have spoken to everyone.’ 

‘Oh, Parvon, you do yourself a disservice, I am sure!’

‘Not everyone in every convoy actually wishes to be here.’ Parvon smiled and shrugged. ‘I understand that many are unhappy… and sometimes people blame the nearest official, and, since I am representing the King’s Office again…’ 

‘Oh, and you were not a willing volunteer yourself, I know...’ Nestoril gave his hands a final squeeze before she released him. ‘Perhaps, if you have time, we might have a little chat before you go back to your next set of duties?’

‘I would be delighted,’ he said. ‘Now, Gaelbes, where have you hidden them…?’

‘I have brought the elfling’s teaching room into use today; it is friendlier, I think, than the entrance hall and we are so excited to have dear Nestoril back again… they have all been given tea and honey cakes.’

‘To sweeten them for me? Thank you, Gaelbes.’

*

Three families with elflings, two married couples without, and half a dozen single elves were waiting in the teaching room for him. All looked up as he entered and closed the door softly behind him; he tried to read the expressions on their faces; tired, hostile or friendly? Or the more usual mixture of all at once…?

‘Well met,’ he began. ‘I hope your journey was not too arduous; you have certainly made good time.’

Nobody seemed inclined to answer him, perhaps expecting him to not require a response. With a nod, he continued.

‘And so, tonight you will be guests of the Healers’ Hall; tomorrow you will be able to take possession of the rooms allocated to you…’

At this, they broke silence all at once.

‘New rooms? But we have our own rooms, in the North arm of the second level…’

‘…near the housekeeper’s wing…’

‘…west sector next to my good friends…’

He let them speak and fall silent and took a breath.

‘You were expecting your former homes to be available? Yes, so was I, when I arrived back.’ Reminding them that he, too, had been uprooted was no bad thing, he was learning. ‘But unfortunately, it is not so. Yes, I understand, believe me, I do! I have had this discussion myself with those in charge of the King’s Office when I arrived; they told me there had been changes; improvements, they called them. And, I suppose, my new rooms are pleasant. But they did not feel like home at first; I am still adapting, as are those from preceding convoys. However, I am afraid there is no real alternative; our former homes are no longer habitable…’

‘Why?’ one of the elves interrupted, cuddling her child closer. ‘What has happened to them?’

Parvon shook his head.

‘I have not been able to find out, not for every home. My own quarters were turned into a very nice storage area for fabrics, so I’m told. But the case is different for everyone; there was a cave-in, I understand, and a wing lost to that… if you are really anxious to find out the fate of your previous homes, you could approach Master Baudh in the King’s Office; he will try to help, but currently his main focus is to provide new, and hopefully better, rooms for everyone. They are to a very high standard and although they are not talain, they are set aside for you and prepared already.’

‘But… will we not have a choice?’ someone else asked.

‘The rooms have been carefully selected according to each family’s requirements,’ Parvon said. ‘I wasn’t given a choice, if that helps; I was told the King’s Office staff all live in the same corridor… now, as you may remember, the King’s Office largely is run by Master Melion these days, and he has a lovely, large family… and I an elf alone, so it is very lively in my neighbourhood…’ 

Even the parents smiled at this.

‘Ah, Master Parvon, it is good not to be alone, yes?’

‘Ah…yes,’ he answered, smiling swiftly. ‘So, tomorrow morning, once I have early duties out of the way, I will come for you and take you to your new rooms.’

‘But what if we don’t like them?’ another voice asked. ‘How long will we have to wait for new accommodations?’

‘In fact, I have been informed that these rooms have been specifically selected with each person, and family, in mind; the furniture of course you may send away and order replacements, but the rooms themselves are already assigned to you.’

‘But…’

‘You cannot just expect…’

He took a steadying breath and shook his head, bracing himself for more outrage.

‘As it was put to me,’ he began, once they had quieted a little. ‘I was told, there are only so many rooms that can be made ready in a few days, which is all the time there is between convoys. Our king is trying to bring as many people home to safety as swiftly as he can…’

‘Safety! We were perfectly safe…!’

‘Or we would have been, if the guard…’

‘…if…’

Parvon spread his hands and raised his voice, just a little.

‘Now is not the time to apportion blame; our king has that all in hand,’ he said firmly. ‘To continue. Our king has said he understands that there may be some reluctance to return to the Old Palace, and while the rooms are not negotiable, the location of your resettlement is. It may be that some of you may prefer to journey to Ithilien, and to settle there with our prince and his husband, and their elves; there are humans there, but friendly ones, but certainly the Silvan colony live in talain in the trees there. Or there is always the opportunity to sail across the Undying Seas and reunite with loved one long lost or sailed themselves…’

He paused to let them mutter and protest and settle again.

‘These are the alternatives his majesty the Elvenking has offered when it was put to him that some people may not like the rooms allocated to them. On first hearing this, it sounded almost like a threat, I thought,’ he said. ‘So I understand that you may be startled by these choices offered you. But many elves now feel that this new age is the age of Men, and that we must either mingle with them or leave these shores. There is, in my office, a list of some score of elves who have come to enquire about a ship; they do not have to sail, but they have decided it is what they would like to do.’

‘What… what are you saying?’ one of the single elves said, coming forward. ‘Master Parvon, you know me, I am Oldor, we… we spoke together at the New Palace and you know I am suffering the loss of a… friend. Are you advising we sail? Or what are you suggesting?’

‘Nothing of the sort; if I am suggesting anything, it is this; that everyone takes a little time. My rooms did not feel right, at first; they did not fit me. But a little time to settle in has shown me how I may fit them, instead. You have all had a tiring journey on top of disturbance and loss; it would be unlikely for any of you to be happy anywhere at first. If, in a month or so, you are truly still unhappy in your rooms, come to me and I will try to help. You may, perhaps, be able to swap amongst yourselves, but initially, it is our king’s wish that you accept the quarters apportioned you.’

The door opened and closed quietly to admit Healer Nestoril and the gathered elves stirred; before any could speak, she came to Parvon’s side and tucked her hand into his arm.

‘After all,’ she said, ‘Our hunter troops and warrior companies, they do not select their own lodgings; by the generosity of the king are they housed, as are we.’ She smiled and glanced at Parvon. ‘Now, I must steal away our friend here; there is a matter I must discuss with him.’

*

Outside, Parvon turned to Nestoril. 

‘How can I help, Healer?’

She shook her head and took him through the corridors to her study. ‘Ah. In fact, I was thinking to help you…’ She gestured towards a seating area near the window where a tray of refreshments was waiting. ‘You’d been in with my journey-friends for quite long enough, I think!’

Parvon shook his head, laughing softly as he took a seat. ‘It certainly felt like it! But I understand some of their concerns, at least, and I am learning how to best present our king’s ultimatum – for so it is, however I try to dress it up.’

Nestoril sighed as she poured herbal tea into cups.

‘Yes, and it is not just the inhabitants of the villages whose lives have been rearranged for them – Parvon, I do feel for your plight!’

‘My situation,’ Parvon said carefully, ‘is different from those made homeless in many ways. It is true, I did not want to leave… but harder for me is the knowledge that all I have built there is to be taken from me; had I known, never would I have left the Old Palace…’ He broke off with a helpless gesture. ‘But then, I suppose none of us would have gone, had we known. For our king would not have allowed us to put ourselves in danger…’

To his surprise, Parvon felt a lump in his throat, an upsurge of angry, despairing emotion he had not expected; Nestoril’s kind hand on his arm didn’t help his control.

‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘It has been a trying time in some ways. I would rather have stayed, and perhaps faced more threats than this… ignominious return…’

‘If I can help in any way…’ Nestoril pressed her lips together and shook her head, sighing. ‘No, it is all very well to say that, but I do not know whether you would ask for aid; instead, I will say, tomorrow I will come with you to look over the rooms with my journey-companions. I may be able to soothe the way a little with the new inhabitants.’

‘Thank you,’ Parvon said. ‘That’s the kind of assistance I can accept. I am grateful.’

*

Later, unwinding after sharing supper with the Healers and with the newcomers, Parvon sat for a moment and filled himself up with his letter from Triwathon.

_“…so, I promised you a tale; I did not like to tell it in my last letter, since I was in haste and really, the tale was incomplete; it is so still, for that matter._

_“…Well. Our old friend Elder Gomben has been in Maereth’s healing rooms, as you know, suffering a broken leg and an excess of nasty thoughts… he is now healed, and at the time of my last, was to be released to the convoy coming down with the king… Gomben claimed he felt ‘too weak’ for the journey and so Maereth suggested he could stay there until the next convoy… however, as soon as the king left, Gomben complained at being kept to the healing rooms, and so we put a guard on him; our king had told us all not to make matters easy for him. He kept complaining, of course, and Maereth and Nestoril have had a very trying time with him… Master Hanben was drafted in to take turns on the desk, and I understand took the chance to tell the complaining elder he was being ridiculous…_

_“So time passed and the wagons returned, and now, perhaps because the king is not here to make his wishes known in person, Gomben has refused the trip again. And, since he became offensive and verbally abusive (towards poor Healer Mae…) I had him arrested and thrown into the cells. Of course, we had to empty one in order to do so and unaccountably, it was the one that had sheltered the animal fodder; it is quite aromatic there, more so than, say, the cell storing the wine and ale…”_

Parvon smiled to himself. Yes; he could imagine Gomben’s annoyance at being constrained and then restrained – and to end up in the garrison cells, where any complaints about the alleged behaviour of the garrison commander would be heard only by those loyal to Triwathon… it was fitting, really.

Although he did feel sorry for the guards on duty at the cells.

_“…What will become of him is uncertain; perhaps he will be released to the eastward settlements, I do not know; Master Merenor has written to formally apprise the king of the situation. Perhaps I will have orders to bring Gomben in irons before his majesty…_

_“…talking of whom, I have heard – from the lady healers, in a roundabout way, that good Healer Nestoril had made her opinion known to our king as to the treatment you received, especially the rumours that attached to you subsequently, rather than landing where I had expected them to, on my amply broad shoulders… I rather feel that his majesty was sent home with strict instructions to make amends to you in some way… I am not sure if this has been the case, since it seemed to me that your last letter suggested that our king was simply keeping you busier…”_

Parvon swallowed hard… he was so emotional today! It wasn’t fitting, really, for one in his station to be so easily moved almost to tears, and although he was currently alone, that really was not the point; there was no reason, was there, for him to feel so out of sorts…?

_“…I hope this company of elves doesn’t give you too many problems; these who will come with Nestoril are the least willing of the displaced elves. But perhaps the bother with Gomben has acted as a warning to them; I would be interested to hear if all went well. After this group, we will be sending elves from the eastern settlements and the New Palace itself, and we are calling for willing volunteers… they, of course, will need wagons for their belongings, for they have not been touched by the fires…”_

Least-willing? Yet there had been nothing in the attitude of the new arrivals at supper to indicate any ill-will towards him or his office; the meal in the Healer’s Halls had gone well, he’d thought; the refugees had talked to him easily enough, and although they asked questions over supper, it was not the interrogation he’d half-expected. In fact, by the end of the evening, it had seemed as if most of them were now looking forward to seeing their new quarters… perhaps, as Triwathon thought, Gomben had been a salutary lesson… and he had been pleased when Oldor, who had earlier asked whether Parvon was advising them to sail (and who had visited Parvon’s New Palace commemorations for the Night of the Names) had come forward and greeted Parvon kindly, warmly, in fact, and had spoken of how much better he felt now, for sharing, and he didn’t think he wanted to sail, not after for coming home.

Coming home.

Was that what Parvon had done?

It was starting to feel like it, except for his life’s work…

And Triwathon, of course.

(…if Triwathon came home, it would be better…)

He turned back to his letter.

_“…I think we will be the poorer for lack of Healer Nestoril, although Maereth has no need of extra help in her healer’s rooms now; there is hardly anyone left in her care, and Master Hanben to assist her, if needed… Master Faerveren is looking happier these days; I think his grandfather does much more than just the filing, but Faerveren is reassured by his presence, I think… still, you are missed…_

_“…Well, my friend, time has crept up on me and I have a scant hour to finish this, seal it, get it to Faerveren to put in the despatch folder and take myself to the garrison to watch them ride out. I hope this finds you well. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”_

_“Your friend, Triwathon.”_

He was missed. The thought made him smile even as his eyes unaccountably filled with a glisten of moisture; perhaps Triw had just meant he was missed in the Palace Office, but… it didn’t feel as if that was what he’d meant.

Suddenly, the prospect of settling in the least-willing of the displaced elves didn’t seem quite as daunting.


	57. The Passenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the passenger with the convoy arrives at the New Palace to seek his old friend...

‘Commander? The convoy’s been sighted near the eastern villages. They’ll be here in an hour. Dispatches were brought on ahead, there’s a missive for you under King’s Office seal.’

‘Thank you.’ Triwathon took the letter and retreated to his office to break the sealing wax with fingers that trembled; probably from the cold, there had been a dusting of snow overnight and the air was still cold and crisply sharp.

He read eagerly, smiling and nodding, his expressions changing as each sentence and paragraph was read, acknowledging and replying to the content as he would have done had Parvon been present.

_“It is good to see Healer Nestoril back in her halls, although Gaelbes and Gyril are, of course, competent and, indeed, Gaelbes has been very kind. So is Ness, too much so, I think. Very sympathetic to what she terms my ‘plight’; I told her, I have adapted, and really, I am comfortable with my work and surroundings, it is just that I miss… well, I miss the people I worked with; not only those in the Palace Office. I miss my garrison friends; I see Narunir and Hannith, yes, but… well… there are others whom I would like to see more…_

_“Ness has been invaluable in settling everyone in; she came with me to settle the families in their new rooms, and where they would have grumbled and complained, she spoke of how lovely the lightwell, to let in the starlight and daylight, and what a lovely part of the palace they were settled in, and other things of the sort… somehow, she was believed, every time!_

_“So much interest has there been in the notion of a ship to Valinor, that I have had to ask for clarification as to when one might be ready; a formal request to Ithilien has been sent and I await the response so that I may pass it on, first to the king for his consideration, and then, if he agrees, to those who wish to leave the forest… they will need an escort down, his majesty has said, probably someone who understands paperwork… I think he was teasing again, and trying to hint he meant me, but instead I said I would ask Master Melion whom among the duty captains understood such things…”_

Triwathon laughed, but wondered; he recalled how Parvon had said he’d be prepared to sail, if he must, for penance over the death of the messenger… had Thranduil really taken that so much to heart? And Parvon, he wouldn’t…. would he? It sounded as if the idea held no appeal for him, but…

It did seem as if Thranduil was actively encouraging his elves to choose to either follow his wishes or leave the forest one way or another; perhaps, now the strife of the world was over, or ending, at least, he wished to be free from strife at home; the king was surely acting to keep everyone as safe as possible, but Triwathon had to admit it had been a relief to bid his majesty farewell, to see the king leave the New Palace – almost as much of a relief as it had been to see him arrive. For while in the aftermath of the dragon attack they had wanted and needed his guidance and wisdom, it was just that… the king had too many ideas sometimes, and his sweeping changes had not been what anyone wanted to hear.

But at least now he’d gone, and Triwathon had the ordering of his own days again.

He returned to his letter.

_“…Talking of ships, there is someone on the convoy who wishes to reconnect with a friend before heading for Ithilien and the voyage West… keep an eye out for him, would you? I don’t know who he wants to see or why, just ‘someone in the New Palace’, and so perhaps you can help him find his friend; I think it must either be someone very important to him, to go to all this trouble despite the restrictions on travel to the northern villages; or else it’s a clever story to hide some other purpose…_

_“…However. I am sorry to hear I am missed; certainly, I miss the New Palace still, and my friends there… I do not even have the joy of refusing Master Baudh’s attentions to fill my time any longer; you may have noticed one amongst the last convoy, by name of Oldor? Well, I happened to know him to likely be lonely, and Master Baudh is not one to be unfriendly, and so I introduced them, telling Oldor that Master Baudh would take particular care of his needs… Baudh has already thanked me…”_

A knock at his door.

‘Commander? If you have a moment…?’

This interruption was simply the reports from the convoy; and it did indeed seem they’d brought a passenger back with them, a civilian who had claimed to be able to shoot and so had earned a place… on a visit to friends before leaving to take ship… interesting, considering Parvon’s letter... 

He kept that in mind as he went to see the order of the wagons, to make sure they could be emptied and made fit for their next load of passengers with a minimal turnaround time… there was also the chance he could get a look at this civilian, see where he wanted to pay a visit to, for, of course, there were parts of the near forest now out of bounds.

The wagons were still unloading, and on one of them, an elf with a looser build than was common in the guards and hunters was hefting a backpack into place. Something about him, the shade of hair, the style of braids, had Triwathon shaking his head… surely he knew this elf…? But…

As he wondered, the figure turned, and familiar eyes widened, a smile broke out.

‘Triwathon? Little-elkling, is that you?’

Triwathon shook his head.

‘Thind… Thindorion? Thindo? You, here…? And, oh, nobody’s called me that for hundreds of years…!’

‘Yes, it is me indeed!’ The elf laughed. ‘I came seeking you; I’ve a trip planned and, well, we’re the last us, the old friends from the old days, you and I. I wanted to say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye? That sounds ominous! Should I be worried?’

The elf smiled. ‘No, Little-elkling. There’s nothing to worry about. Can we meet up, later? I don’t know the ways of the New Palace…’

‘Of course. I’ll get someone to take you to the Palace Office, an elf there – probably Master Faerveren – will speak to the housekeeper about quarters for you. We eat in the dining hall, there is a bell that sounds… there’s no top table tonight, so we could sit together, if you like? I have duty after, but…’

‘That supper together will do, for a start. Ai, but it’s good to see you again!’ Thindorion grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I would hug you, but we’re surrounded by people… Now… Palace Office…?’

Triwathon let out a whistled call and the garrison runner came across.

‘Commander?’

‘Take my friend Thindorion here to the Palace Office and bespeak Master Faerveren’s efforts to get him a decent guest room, will you?’

‘At once, sir. This way, master.’

*

Later, Thindorion grinned at Triwathon across the table in the dining hall. 

‘So what’s that title of yours again?’ he asked. ‘“Commander”, was it?’ 

Triwathon laughed.

‘Yes, I’ve been fortunate. A promotion during the War of the Ring, and after, they let me take charge of the garrison here. We had high hopes, but, it seems now to have been a temporary posting…’

‘The Old Palace is full of the story – and some of the misplaced elves! Dragons and fire and it sounds as if it might have been quite exciting, but for the losses.’

Triwathon nodded.

‘That’s the thing, though, always the losses… Presumably, that’s why there’s the sudden interest in sailing? 

‘Well that, in a roundabout sort of way, is why I’m here…’ Thindorion admitted.

‘Are you really thinking of taking ship, then?’ Triwathon asked, curiously surprised. ‘I remember, the three of us, we were adamant we never would…!’

_(…the three of them, Maedon and Triwathon and Thindorion, all convinced they would stay in the forest forever, stay alive and young and happy forever…)_

‘Well, to be fair, one of us was more adamant than the others… and he’s there now, anyway.’ Thindorion paused to raise his wine glass in a silent toast. ‘Or in the Halls of Mandos, at least! Ah, he would have liked this, a good red wine… I remembered him, on the Night of the Names.’

‘As did I,’ Triwathon answered, although the fact was that he had passed swiftly on from remembering his first lover Maedon to the more pressing, awful grief for Glorfindel. ‘It seems a long time ago, does it not?’

‘And yet only a thought away…’

‘Although perhaps this topic should continue in private,’ Triwathon said, as Erthor and Calithilon hailed Triwathon and made their way over, intent on joining the table. 

‘Of course. And who comes to join us? New friends, Little-Elkling?’

‘What’s this?’ Calithilon asked, smiling. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard you called that before, Triwathon?’

‘Calithilon and Erthor, this is Thindorion; old friends, in fact, Thindo!’ Triwathon said, laughing. ‘The silly use-name comes from a time, long ago, when I was blamed for a mutual friend’s being caught in the Elk-tamer’s preserves; he claimed he’d heard a little elk in distress. In fact, it was I, lost, and as I was the youngest of our group of friends, the name stuck amongst us.’ He glanced at Thindorion and shook his head. ‘Fortunately, it wasn’t known outside the three of us, and so now I think I am old enough, and wise enough, to laugh at a name given when I was young, foolish, and not the respectable elf and asset to the guard that I would have people believe I have always been…’ He beckoned the servants forward to pour more wine for them all. ‘Thindorion here knew me when I was very young and very silly and has remained a friend in spite of that, although we have not met up for a very long time.’

‘How have things been, in the Old Palace?’ Erthor asked. It was a cautious opening, because, after all, you didn’t know if someone you were about to ask after had died, and this gave a chance to reference anyone whose name could no longer been spoken freely. ‘We passed through on our way up before Yule, but were only there overnight.’

‘For many, the same as ever, really. Except that, personally, I don’t feel at home there any longer; I can’t explain it, there is a part of me that thinks the forest wants me gone… no, wants us all gone, I think. There’s a few other people seem to feel it, so it’s not just me.’ He smiled and shrugged. ‘There’s a tendency to blame the War of the Ring, but really, it’s just not been the same since the New Palace was founded. Many of us felt we were being abandoned, I think; we were to dwindle to a good place to stop off between your New Palace and Ithilien. There’s been a bit of resentment, and now that you’re all coming home, some quiet joy in the corners.’

‘I suppose that won’t make the new arrivals feel any more welcome,’ Calithilon said. ‘We were in Ithilien, it’s a different situation, we’ve always felt it’s an experimental settlement.’

‘You like it there? They say that’s where we sail from these days.’

‘It’s different from the forest, lighter, I suppose,’ Erthor said. ‘But the prince is a fine leader and the company’s a happy one. And, of course, very sympathetic to those not in traditional arrangements… it’s no longer a requirement for the guard there, of course.’

‘You travelled up with the convoy, you said?’ Calithilon asked. ‘I wonder you were allowed, given the current mood.’

‘Someone in the King’s Office helped me; a new face. Well, a new old face – he used to work there before, I think. Parvon, quiet sort of fellow, you know, the type who could be at home anywhere if he had some filing to do…’ 

Thindorion grinned and Triwathon tried to echo his expression as Erthor and Calithilon, warriors who had never had to worry about protocol or managing anything much, both laughed.

‘In fact, we worked together here; he ran the Palace Office,’ Triwathon said, feeling a need to defend Parvon. ‘I’m glad he was helpful; we are friends.’

‘Yes. Must admit, I expected to find it more difficult to get permission to come. Especially once I learned my road to the West would not begin by travelling through here and on through the mountains; I was a bit shocked to find I’d have to leave from Ithilien! But he made all easy for me.’

‘That’s good to know,’ Triwathon said, and turned the conversation. ‘I’ve duty at the garrison this evening; I will need to hear the day reports, and make sure all’s well, so I can’t linger at the table, unfortunately; how long are you here for, Thindo?’

‘I’m not really sure… I’m supposed to go back on the next convoy.’

‘That gives you all of tomorrow and another night,’ Triwathon said, rising to his feet. ‘I must leave you now; I’m sure Erthor and Calithilon will bear you company; perhaps you and I can meet up, once you’ve seen your friend? Whom were you looking for, particularly? I’ll see if I can pass word for you.’

Thindorion laughed and shook his head.

‘Really, Elking? You haven’t realised yet? You, of course!’


	58. 'Something to Live Up to...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon pays a visit to his friend the dyer...

_‘…you, of course!’_

Thindorion’s laughing reply echoed through Triwathon’s thoughts as he tried to focus on the day reports from the garrison. The information that Hannith, having come in with the convoy, was now off duty and Narunir would go out on the return journey swam before his eyes and he recognised the import of the text; Hannith needed the night to herself and Narunir was already owed several hours’ downtime…

… but nothing of note seemed to have happened during the convoy’s return, other than a comment about how willing a helper the passenger had been, but that his archery skills were not as polished as he thought they were… that brought a smile to Triwathon’s face; of the three of them, Thindorion was definitely the worst shot, but as he’d decided the guard wasn’t for him, it hadn’t mattered too much…

…but what was Thindo _doing here?_ Surely not simply a visit to an old friend before taking ship, they hadn’t been that close, not for a very long time… not, really, since Maedon’s death (it was all right to think the name, just not to say it…)

‘Commander?’ A smart rap at his half-open door and he looked up from shuffling impenetrable pages of perfectly-legible reports. ‘If you want some time, sir…?’

‘That’s good of you, Narunir, but not necessary.’

‘There’s nothing in the reports except one of the newest recruits shot at a squirrel. He missed, which was good for the squirrel, but earned him a reprimand for, firstly, loose shooting, and secondly, poor aim. He’ll be on the practice ranges tomorrow; I’m leading the session. Everything else is fine.’

‘Thank you. But I don’t follow…?’

‘I happened to join Erthor and Calithilon at table, and they introduced the fellow sitting with them, sir. I understand he’s to be my guest on the next run to the Old Palace, so there won’t be much time for him to catch up with his old friends, Commander…’

‘Ah. Now I see. But you’ve had a long day, Narunir, and I’m…’

‘And so an hour or two sitting still at a nice desk with, perhaps, a glass of wine and the door almost closed, sir, would be perfect. I can do the handover to the night watch captain, easily enough, sir, and I do happen to know where our guest is quartered, should we need to contact you. Assuming you pay him a visit, sir, that is.’

‘In fact, I don’t know myself where he’s quartered…’

‘The room to the left of the suite Lord Arveldir and his husband had, Commander.’ Narunir gave a tight, formal smile that dissolved into a grin. ‘If I can take a liberty, sir, it would do you good to take a   
few hours to yourself. And there’s nothing like an old friend, is there?’

Triwathon considered for a moment. It might be good to talk over old times, the days when all he’d had to worry about was being caught out in some misdemeanour or other…

‘Then I will say, I am grateful, Captain Narunir, and if you will permit me to take over your archery practice in the morning, I will accept your offer. If you have any difficulties, it sounds as if you know where to find me.’

‘Agreed, sir. And if you wanted to open it up to non-garrison elves, I think Healer Mae might like a bit of a change.’

*

Returning to his rooms, Triwathon changed into a soft cream shirt and dark green leggings. He rebraided his hair, unconscious of the trouble he was taking with his appearance, and wondered again about Thindorion, and all the associations seeing his old friend had brought up… they’d not met since… well, before Triwathon’s posting to the New Palace, and, in fact, when he thought about it…

…actually, it was longer, yes, before the dragon Smaug had fallen upon Dale… not long for an elf, but far too long for such friends as they had been… but the last time, really, he had seen Thindo had been shortly after commissioning him to make a kilt of bright blue leather, when he’d asked for lessons in the dyeing of fabric so he could make some blue towels as a gift for… oh, for his then-beloved Balrog-slayer… 

The thought reminded him of how fine the kilt had looked, how wonderful the hero wearing it, how… how much Triwathon had missed his Glorfindel and…

But this would not do! The Lord of Gondolin and rescuer of the New Palace was with his Ecthelion now, where he belonged. And all had been over between them.

_(…hadn’t it…?)_

Well. It would be good to talk over the old, old days, Triwathon decided firmly. Nobody knew you like an old friend, after all.

He found a couple of bottles of good red wine to take with him, left word with the duty officer where he might be found at need, and made his way to Thindorion’s guest quarters. 

The door opened quickly to his knock, Thindorion grinning and sweeping his eyes over him to rest, finally, on the bottles in his hands.

‘Now, there’s a sight! Come in, Little-elkling…’

‘…I do wish you wouldn’t…’

‘Really? Why?’ Thindorion laughed as he took the proffered wine and breached one to pour full beakers. ‘You never seemed to mind…’

‘Ah, well, I was very young then, and eager to please; I didn’t want to lose my friends by not liking the nice names they called me!’ Triwathon accepted a beaker and raised it. ‘But now I have responsibilities and a certain air of authority to uphold! To our dead friend who liked fine red wine!’

‘To him.’ Thindorion lifted his own wine cup and drank. ‘Ah, this really is good! He’d have liked this, so he would…’

‘Indeed; when I need to talk of him outside the Night of Names, I refer to him as Red, for the Fine Red Wine he liked so well. Although a friend of mine who used to be in the King’s Office used to just call him ‘the poacher’…’

‘Really so?’ Thindorion laughed. ‘Although that suits him better than you know… well, will you sit?’

Triwathon found a comfortable chair near the fireside, set his cup down and crossed his booted feet at the ankles, settling in, trying to look relaxed but really very aware of the presence of this elf who had once been a close friend but who now might think he had every right to feel aggrieved for decades of neglect…

‘So, how have you been?’ he began tentatively. ‘Since we last… since… Ah, Thindo, what happened? How did we lose touch?’

The elf lifted an eyebrow and smiled.

‘It has been a long time, hasn’t it?’ he said, taking a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. ‘I’d say, a little bit of you, a little bit of me… a couple of wars… it’s enough to sunder even the closest of friends. Let’s set that aside, shall we, as something that happened but that we can both forgive and move beyond?’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind; I do feel now, it was more my fault…’

‘When you came back…’ Thindorion looked into the depths of his wine cup, found it empty, refilled both his and Triwathon’s. ‘With the news our friend was dead, I remember sitting with you and his family, with the Starlight Gemstone… it wasn’t the best of times to meet, was it?’

Triwathon shook his head.

‘There was so much I wanted to tell you about it, about the whole journey,’ he said, ‘but meeting with his kin and speaking polite, formal memories of him… it hurt. And, after, you stayed with the family and I… well, I was a little ashamed of myself, perhaps. I’d… made a mistake, it was hard, I wanted to confide in you…’

‘You always used to,’ Thindorion murmured. ‘Especially when Red had been… less kind than he could have.’

‘I… looking back, I can see now, he wasn’t perfect. But I still felt, at that moment… you see, after he died, I was hurting, and someone said he could help, would take care of me, and I was so lost without M… without Red telling me what to do, he always used to tell me what to do even if I didn’t need telling, but… of course, it didn’t help, and it didn’t last, this one, he was coming home to an elleth, and then seeing you, I suddenly felt it had been wrong, that Red would have been hurt and so you would be, too…’

‘If I had, Elkling, I wouldn’t have let you see. Not if you were in pain.’

Triwathon nodded. ‘I know. But at the time, I felt so guilty… I went to the gardens to think and by chance, someone found me there. The… the Hero of Gondolin, that is. He listened, he was kind, I didn’t feel guilty or ashamed with him, he only knew Red as my lover who had died, and he had seen how I had been treated on the way home. But you see, after that night, I was caught up in him and then it just seemed even harder to come to you.’

‘But you did come, if I remember rightly; I would have been ready to be your good friend and more, had you needed it, but instead of coming for comfort, you came with a commission…’

Triwathon nodded. ‘I asked you to make a kilt, in blue leather for the Balrog-slayer! At the time I thought he would have his fill of me in a day or so, and I intended it as a parting gift to show my gratitude and that I knew it would end… and, it must be said, Thindo, you had never intimated any sort of interest in me that way, you were as you ever had been, my good friend who always seemed better friends with Red than with me, really…’

‘Well… with our friend the poacher being the jealous sort, I hadn’t wanted to cause trouble for you… or for me…’

‘Red wasn’t jealous! Insecure, maybe. Not jealous; we’re elves, we don’t get jealous…’ Triwathon trailed off, uneasily aware that perhaps that wasn’t always the case. ‘Anyway, just what did you mean, earlier?’ he asked, turning the talk away from his uncomfortable guilt which was now compounded by the idea that perhaps Thindo had been more interested in him than he’d realised. ‘About ‘poacher’ being a better name for him than Red; we all know he liked to sneak into the preserves of the Royal Elk-Tamers… mostly it was just so nobody knew what he was getting up to, but…’

‘Ah, this was different.’ Thindorion gestured with his goblet between them. ‘When we first got to know each other… I saw you first…’

‘What? But Red introduced us…’

‘No, I did; you were in the feasting hall, a family celebration, your begetting day, I think. You were just of age. I made the mistake of pointing you out to him and saying that in a score of years, I might try to make your acquaintance. He said you were of age now, so why wait…?’ Thindorion sighed. ‘And next time I saw you, his arm was round your shoulders and you were laughing up at him…’

Triwathon shook his head.

‘All this time, I never knew that…’

‘Well, why should you? I couldn’t show anything more than a distant liking for you, not while he was alive – I don’t care what you call it, he was possessive at the least, our friend the poacher…’

‘Well. I’ll admit, he liked to know he mattered…’

‘What?’ Thindorion shook his head, laughing but his tone harsh, as if anger and bitterness lay beneath the laughter. ‘The things he had you do, made you put yourself through, just to please him…’

‘I must confess, I’ve since wondered if some of the situations he liked to create were… usual…’

‘Making you partner another elf so he could enjoy the sight of you?’

‘What? But he said that was just between us…’

‘Well, he told me about it. Making a point, perhaps.’

‘Anyway, he said it was only so I could tell him after, I loved him, not anyone else, not interested…’ Triwathon shook his head, laughing to himself. ‘That’s really bad, isn’t it? Now I think of it.’

‘Yes. I really don’t think you were treated at all well, Little-elkling, I would have been much nicer to you… Can I ask you something? I think I may know the answer already, but… Red… he wasn’t your fëa-mate?’

‘No.’ Without hesitation. ‘I used to think he might be… early on. When we were all so young, but then… I do not know, I think perhaps I recognised that… that he mattered to me more than I to him, and I thought, that can’t be how it is, not if we are meant to be forever-loves; surely there would be more balance? And I had no-one to compare him against, either. But time went on, and he said nothing about vows, just about wine, and games with other elves, and…’ He broke off to shrug. ‘Why, I wondered, should I have to prove to him like that, how he mattered, if we were fëa-mates? Should not he have known?’ 

‘I would have thought so. At the very least he should have taken better care of you, sometimes he was so careless with you, he was stupid; there was one time… Do you remember waking up in the Healer’s Halls one morning wishing you were dead rather than hungover…?’

‘Oh, that! You were there, for some reason, and Nestoril gave you the most terrible lecture…’

‘All undeserved, too. Red had brought you to me in a panic; he said you’d overdone it, his words; but the truth was he’d got you so drunk you couldn’t walk straight. Or at all; he was carrying you, and when he left, you didn’t seem to understand where you were… then you were ill all over the rugs, and still didn’t seem any better, so I picked you up and carried you to the Healers, and stayed there with you all night.’

‘I… really? You did that for me?’ Triwathon shook his head. ‘It’s late coming, but thank you! I was so foolish when I was young!’

‘To be fair, Red was forever leading you into trouble and then didn’t often lead you out of it again. We were all young and foolish together.’

‘You were older, much more sensible…’

‘Tried a bit too hard to be the sensible one, maybe.’ Thindorion sighed. ‘Anyway. I often thought, he wasn’t exactly kind…’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter, now. Although I did love him. Red, that is. But I found kindness, he for whom I bespoke the kilt, he was kind.’

‘I’m glad… I saw him in it, he did show my handiwork off well!’

‘Yes, he did.’ Triwathon smiled into his glass, remembering again the sight, Glorfindel laughing as he flaunted himself in a bright blue kilt, almost as blue as his eyes…

‘And it did me and my workrooms no harm to have Glorfindel of Gondolin parading my skills for me… what?’ Thindorion said, hearing Triwathon gasp. ‘Ah, wait… his name was in the messages, he was one of those who died here, wasn’t he? I’m sorry; he meant a lot to you, I think?’

‘We gave him full Silvan rites, Thindo, so saying his name is…’ There was a tremble to Triwathon’s voice even though he tried his hardest to sound calm. ‘But yes, we were dear to each other, at one time…’

‘It seems to me as if he is so to you, still,’ Thindorion said, his voice soft and very kind. ‘I am sorry, you obviously cared for him deeply…’

‘It was… it was finished between us, we had agreed to part amicably, and were still friends, distant friends… I have since learned he’d even taken a new bed-friend, that sounds wrong, as if I mind, but I don’t…’ Triwathon gasped in a breath as he realised that here was someone who might understand, whom he didn’t have to be careful with, someone who might, just, know how he felt without explanations… ‘I really didn’t; I was happy to put that part of my life aside because, after all, who could follow the Hero of Gondolin? Yes? And I had a new command and… and there was someone here who thought I was his fëa-mate, so I didn’t want to make it worse for him by parading lovers around and… and I thought it was over with my Balrog-slayer, we had said farewell, agreed to be friends and then he had this _stupid_ prophetic dream and decided I needed rescuing so he brought all his friends with him across the mountains to save us from dragons and we met again and the next thing I knew a dragon had him in its talons, flying off with him, and when I found him, he was hurt and do you know what he did, what the _bastard_ did to me?’ Triwathon’s voice began to rise and tremble. ‘He died in my arms, that’s what he did, and it made it all happen all over again, the love and the pain, and it wasn’t fair and… and… if I ever see him again it will be much, much too soon, I hate him, I hate him, I…’

‘Elkling.’ Thindorion came to kneel at his side, reaching out to Triwathon even as he buried his face in his hands and let go of all his pent-up grief. ‘Come, it’s not that bad. He always did strike me as a bit of a show-off; that is, bringing his friends to watch him save everyone…?’

Shaking shoulders, a sob that didn’t quite take over, and Triwathon dropped his hands; Thindorion held him at arm’s length, looking into his eyes.

‘That’s better. Would more wine help? No? I think that’s wise. You had missed him, obviously.’

‘I…’ Triwathon sighed. ‘I did, at first. And then, I didn’t; I was busy, I had friends, work, new challenges. Then he arrived and it happened again. I knew there was no future for us; his forever-love waiting in Valinor, I didn’t even think there was a now for us, not really, but…’

‘But the old wounds reopened, the old pain was back?’

Triwathon nodded. Thindorion sighed, gave a shake of the head.

‘Yes, I know how that feels, Elkling.’

‘It is… I am sorry, I don’t think I realised how much it hurt. But thank you; I haven’t really had anyone to talk to about this. And to make things worse, the Lord of Gondolin’s latest lover is coming here, bringing back the starlight gemstone with his, and Rivendell’s memories in.’

‘You never know; it might make things better.’

‘What?’

‘You were the last one to hold him, to see him. You’re in a position to offer comfort to this elf. Who knows, he might be sad, and lovely, and you can console each other…?’

Triwathon shook his head.

‘I don’t think so; I’m not that lonely that I’d seek my former lover in his lover’s arms…’

‘I didn’t mean…’

‘…I could have taken a lover again already, but I didn’t want to. I turned someone down, and, besides...’

‘…besides, who could follow the Lord of Gondolin, yes?’ Thindorion said, smiling. 

Triwathon’s smile started slow, but blossomed. ‘You see, I knew you’d understand.’

Thindorion reached to stroke back a wayward strand of hair that had escaped Triwathon’s braids. 

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I know a thing or two about waiting for the right one at the right time…’

‘Oh, Thindo, I am so… wait. This isn’t the bit where you proclaim everlasting affection for me, is it…? Because if you plan on saying I must be your fëa-mate because you care so much, then I need to just mention that this has been said before by someone else and you cannot both be right…’

The elf laughed and folded himself onto the floor near Triwathon’s chair. He glanced down as he answered.

‘It’s all right, Elkling. It’s true, I have had strong feelings for you, but… these feelings we can have for someone long after we last saw them… they can’t always be trusted, you know.’ He smiled. 'Sometimes, you have to see for yourself. I suppose that’s why I came, to see if you really are as lovely and handsome as I remember, as I held the Triwathon-of-the-heart, to see how my feelings would take to the thought of leaving you here. And you are, still, immeasurably fair. But… all the longing that attached to my memory of you, all the sweet pain…I do wonder if it was for someone who no longer exists, except in my memories. You’ve grown, Little-elkling, and my image of you has to catch up, I suppose.’

‘Thindo, if anything I’ve done, or said, has made your fëa sad….’

A slow smile, Thindorion’s eyes warm as he lifted his head.

‘It wasn’t anything you meant to do, or could help happening. And a lot of it came from our poacher; at one time, I did wonder how things might have been if I’d spoken to you that first night I noticed you…’

‘I probably wouldn’t have been in the guard for long…’

‘Or he’d have taken you away from me, somehow or other. Well. You might never have met your Balrog-slayer, and I think that would have been a shame.’

Triwathon shook his head, trying not to give way to more tears. His throat hurt from emotion.

‘Now you need more wine,’ Thindorion said, and rose to refill the cups, passing one to Triwathon. ‘It’s strange, the turns our lives can take. Nothing can happen for hundreds of years and then the entire course of your future can shift in a heartbeat.’

Triwathon accepted the drink and smiled up at his friend. ‘You’ve become very wise, Thindo.’

‘It comes to us all, I think. Unless we’re so silly we get ourselves killed early and…’ He broke off. ‘I didn’t mean, you know, your Balrog-slayer…’

Triwathon nodded. ‘I know. And… I think it’s all right, that he’s gone. For him, that is. I think he was tired of being here, but didn’t know how to leave his friends. He’d always felt he was sent back to do a job… I’m not so self-centred to think that would be saving us from dragons, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘I just miss him now, again, and that doesn’t seem fair, but now that I’ve been able to talk about him – for which, again, I am so grateful, Thindo – I will adjust.’

Thindorion shook his head, smiling. ‘And you said I’d become wise, but you… you’ve become… well, I think I like this new Triwathon more than the Triwathon-of-my-memories.’ 

‘Well.’ Triwathon lifted the wine cup in silent toast. ‘That’s something to live up to.’


	59. Mood Swings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, to begin with, Parvon feels unaccountably cheerful...

‘You are remarkably cheery tonight, Master Parvon!’ Mistress Amardis said, offering round the platter again.

Parvon shook his head, smiling as he allowed himself to accept another honey cake.

‘Ah, but I feel rather cheerful,’ he replied. ‘I am sure it is the good food and pleasant company! I am sorry it has taken me so long to accept your kind invitation, but…’

‘But we are not the only family you have resettled, I know this.’ Mistress Amardis nodded. ‘And of course, we all needed a little time to find our places and sort our surroundings, I think. Already it feels very long while since we were all on the road together does it not?’

‘It does indeed. I hope you are happier now, with your rooms? I know at first, it was not what you had expected…?’

‘Oh, we all had expectations,’ Amardis waved a hand and reached across the table to where her young daughter was about to play havoc amongst the cups by serving herself. ‘Just a moment, my dear, let Nana help you… there… now… Elflings! Have you ever wished for a family of your own, Master Parvon?’

This was said with a sort of casual defiance, as if she knew it was the wrong question to ask of him, but Parvon took it in his stride.

‘Ah, well, the New Palace was my family, the office my elfling, I suppose…’

‘Well, you certainly had your hands full there, at least here you will have more support in the King’s Office… Do you know, we had forgotten, I think, how snug the dwellings are in the palace, how convenient for everything? And we can go out into the forest if we wish, so it is better, in some ways…’

An ellon at the table cleared his throat, and Amardis laughed. ‘Not that my Dinemen will agree, will you, husband?’

‘I must confess, my dear, that while you have made us a lovely home, I do not think I am quite as fond of ‘snug’ as you are.’ He gave a small smile and nodded towards Parvon. ‘I am glad there is a window to the outside, so I may open it and breathe the air; I do not need reminding that all this is done to keep us safe, and I am grateful that our family did not suffer, as did others, but at the same time, we were not amongst those who complained… and yet we must all leave.’

‘Yes.’ Parvon nodded. ‘We all must leave, and I would rather have stayed and seen everyone else safe first, but at least here I am able to provide a welcome.’

‘And I have spoken with some of my friends who arrived after us,’ Amardis went on, as if her husband had never spoken. ‘They are coming to be content, and all agree that you have worked tirelessly to help them. We did notice, though, Dinemen and I, on the trip down, you were not in spirits. You had no say in the matter, did you?’

‘I am the king’s advisor, and where he wants me to serve, that is where I go.’ Parvon shrugged. ‘My duties here are interesting and varied, and it is good to help people settle in.’

‘Well, as I say, it is good to see you more cheerful.’

*

The thought occupied him on the way back to his rooms and throughout the evening; it was true, he had been feeling happier this evening, and although he had suggested it was a result of Mistress Amardis’ and Master Dinemen’s hospitality, really, that wasn’t the case; they were pleasant people who kept a good table and they had been kind and welcoming, but his happiness had surged during the meal (over the venison, in fact, which was good, but not spectacular enough to account for it). Looking back over his day, there was nothing of happy note either; he had been invited to attend his majesty the next morning to discuss a missive which had come from Ithilien that day, which was not exactly a highlight…

Back in his rooms he looked at the desk where he kept writing materials. He debated beginning a letter to Triwathon, but not enough had happened yet to warrant it and, besides, by his reckoning, the convoy would only have arrived that afternoon. No. Best wait until after his meeting with the king, for there was bound to be something to say then; the meeting itself would probably be the response awaited about the ship west, and no doubt that would bring more work to Parvon’s desk…

He broke off his train of thought to shake his head, for unaccountably, his mood had suddenly plummeted and he felt an upsurge of raging grief that took his breath away and made tears stand in his eyes; it was ridiculous, embarrassing and mortifying, and he was glad he was on his own when it happened, yet dismayed; he had really thought he had settled and stabilized his mood, had got over the angry shame of being almost thrown out of the New Palace and the loss inherent in packing up his life there…

With a sigh, he poured himself a small glass of spirits and sipped it, wandering around his rooms tidying things that didn’t need moving until he felt stable once more; whatever the source of the emotional outburst, now that it had passed, he felt cleansed for it, washed free of some lingering bitter grief of which he’d been unaware. Ah, well. He drank off the last of his spirits, set the glass down neatly, and went to bed, hoping the morning would feel like a fresh start.

*

The next day saw him finding his equilibrium once more, and writing off the excessive emotion of the previous night as a mere chance event, perhaps connected to the evening spent with Dinemen and Amardis had triggered something in his subconscious, perhaps, an unnoticed word which hadn’t coalesced into a conscious thought but which had hit him directly in the fëa instead; whatever the reason, he was glad it had passed but resolved to be more circumspect than usual in his dealings with people; it would not do if such a thing were to happen during his working hours.

This morning in particular he needed to be alert; meetings with the king usually required several levels of consideration; what his majesty said; what he wanted, expected, understood. But there was always an undertow, one had to listen to how the king spoke, be alert to the pauses, the variation of tone; it might be something as minor as an attempt at humour to which Parvon was expected to respond (he was getting better at spotting these, and had decided that offering his opinion straight back in a decidedly acid tone both vented his feelings and made the king think Parvon was actually trying to respond in kind…) or it might be that Thranduil had already made up his mind and was angling his remarks so that his advisors would find themselves automatically agreeing; this was harder to dodge, although, for Parvon, easier to spot… 

As if that were not enough, increasingly, Parvon had noticed, where Melion may have suggested a particular course of action with which the king disagreed, Thranduil would try to present the case to Parvon in such a way as to intimate it not a good idea, and so Parvon had to be alert to everything that was going on, or at least refuse to be drawn until such time as he had consulted with Melion who, after all, was still Chief Advisor to the Old Palace…

Any meeting with the king, then, was rife with pitfalls and traps but, whatever Parvon had expected from the morning’s audience, this particular announcement was beyond even his imaginings…

‘Yes, there is a reply from Legolas, he has a ship almost ready now, in fact; he says it keeps the Men busy helping… of course, it will take a little time to get the would-be voyagers down there; it is my wish that they walk, in order to properly experience the forest that has nurtured them, and they ought to carry such items as they believe they will need for their new lives… I understand there will be space for a score or so, not more than thirty; there are some other elves who want a berth…’

The casual way with which the king said all this, the dismissive lift of his fingers, suggested the elves in question were not Silvans…

‘Noldor or Galadhrim?’ Parvon asked. ‘Not that it matters to me, of course…’

‘Are you sure, Master Parvon? For I seem to remember you were quite keen on taking ship, at one point…?’

‘But then I would miss the delight of attending your majesty’s weekly audience, and such other sundry pleasures.’

‘Hmm… yes, very good, Parvon, very good, you see, you can be amusing when you choose… now. To continue. We will not make our Silvans aware that there may be Noldo on the vessel, lest they decide not to sail… and so. You will find all the relevant details on your desk, I am assured by Melion… and now…’

Thranduil shifted position, swapping his usual reclining slouch for something more purposeful.

‘Parvon, I am aware you have returned to duties as a subordinate rather than as head of the King’s Office…’ 

A pause. Parvon bowed, but the waiting pause from Thranduil demanded a comment; while he would have liked to say he would be content to return to the New Palace in the most subordinate post there rather than be here, he realised this was not strictly true; it was the people he was missing most, and, besides…

‘It is of little matter, sire. Master Melion treats me with the utmost respect and is keen to consult me on many aspects of the running of the palace. He strives to make my work varied and does all he can to diminish any differences between our positions.’

‘Yes. In fact, I was serious when I said to you that there must be someone with proper knowledge to accompany those sailing down to their ship; all must be documented and logged accurately. What’s more, my son has said he has need of an advisor of his own; the dealings with Men are increasing and so it must be someone with tact and vision…’

‘Sire…?’ Parvon couldn’t tell, from Thranduil’s expression, what he was about to suggest, but currently, the thought of moving further away from the New Palace was not what Parvon would like...

‘…which of course you have proven yourself to have. However, Master Melion has offered himself to the journey…’

Oh. So why mention it in such a fashion?’

‘Of course, this is in the strictest confidence, do you understand?’

No, not in the slightest…

‘Of course, my king.’

‘Good. He has some sense that if he accompanies the voyagers, then you can move back into your place as Chief Advisor of the King’s Office. And I must admit, I rather think I preferred your management style, Master Parvon.’

‘I am flattered, my king. But the populace seems happier with Master Melion’s way of doing things.’

‘Is it not easier, and preferable, to keep your king happy, rather than the populace?’

‘I would hardly say easier, sire…’

Thranduil snapped out a laugh which sounded genuinely mirthful.

‘Joking apart, Parvon, I am minded to accept Melion’s suggestion; I find I would rather you stayed in the Old Palace; those who are coming to live here seem to accept your assistance in settling more easily than they would another, I believe. However, you will still be the official contact for those wishing to sail; we will redesignate your responsibilities to render you in charge of the Division of Matters Transitional – elves coming to settle and leaving to make new homes over the Sundering Seas… yes, that will do, I think. Very well, that is all. Bear in mind you are not supposed to know that Master Melion offered to uproot his entire family in order to allow you to be in charge of the King’s Office once more.’

Parvon bowed deeply.

‘Indeed, sire, it is more than can be expected of anyone, that they abandon the place where they are most fulfilled simply for reasons political, is it not?’

Thranduil stiffened; his smile formal, pretending amusement.

‘Parvon, I am not certain whether or not you realise it, but your sense of humour has already reached its zenith today; you may go.’


	60. New Palace/Old Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a shift from Triwathon's evening and morning, to Parvon's post-audience activities...

At just about the same time that Parvon, far away in the Old Palace, was sipping his glass of spirits and trying to recover from his unexpected mood swings, Triwathon reached the door of the duty office and looked in to find Narunir keeping a very relaxed watch on the desk. He smiled to himself and spoke briskly.

‘Everything nice and quiet, Narunir?’

‘Commander!’ Captain Narunir sat up abruptly, recovering from his semi-slouched, halfway-to-reverie doze. ‘Yes, sir, all is well… I didn’t expect you back tonight… I mean, before I stood down for the watch, I mean, you were visiting your… um… old friend…’

Triwathon laughed and perched on the edge of the desk.

‘We’re not that sort of old friends, Narunir! Again, my thanks for taking the watch; and I will be at the ranges to lead the practice, as promised. Goodnight, now.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Triwathon pushed the door to after the captain before taking a seat behind his desk. He checked the papers in front of him – nothing of note – and allowed himself to sigh. No. He and Thindorion hadn’t been that sort of friends at all, although it did seem now as if Thindo might have liked it to have been different… and truth to tell, after the relief of purging himself of so much lingering hurt and grief, Triwathon would have quite liked the safe haven of a warm and friendly pair of arms…

But not tonight. It would have been too easy, but at the same time, it would have been unkind, in a way; Thindorion’s affectionate friendship deserved more that to be turned to just for solace…

(‘Will you be all right?’ he had asked, as Triwathon had set down his wine cup and risen to leave, and, ‘I will be fine,’ Triwathon had told him.) 

‘…I would like to spend time with you tomorrow,’ he had gone on to say, ‘but, alas, I have to break my fast at the garrison table… although, if you would like to take a turn at the archery butts, I am giving a training session afterwards…?’

‘Ai, now, there’s a thought!’ Thindorion laughed. ‘Yes, and why not? After all, you have to work and I won’t be here beyond the return of the convoy…’

‘I can free the evening, if you wish. We could eat together privately, my rooms or yours, whichever you prefer…’

‘I’d like that; there’s still much I’d like to say to you, so many of the old stories to go over again.’

‘I will look for you on the archery range, then. Goodnight, Thindo. It really is good to see you again.’

He had wanted to open his arms, to hug his old – and very dear – friend in farewell, but Thindo hadn’t actually said, no, he’d never thought of Triwathon as his fëa-mate, and the hug could so easily have grown from friendly contact to embrace and so he had smiled and stepped back with an excuse about needing to check in with Narunir...

Now, with a little time to kill before the duty captain for the next watch came to take over, Triwathon reached for writing materials. He had another old friend whose company, even at a distance, was comforting.

_“Dear Parvon,”_ he began. _“Thank you for the warning about the visiting elf with the convoy. And, indeed, thank you for sending him! In fact, I am the old friend with whom he wished to connect… it has been very good to spend an evening catching up with him; he knew me when I was very young and foolish – about the same time I came to your attention, in the King’s Office, giggling away like an idiot while he whom you call ‘The Poacher’ smirked his way through yet another reprimand… Thindo was far too wise to join the guard along with us, or to get into any of our most embarrassing scrapes!_

_“We still have Elder Gomben locked safely away; we tire of him, he tires of us, and so I am hopeful that when good Master Hanben speaks to him tomorrow, Gomben will agree to return on the convoy, since he has now experienced what the alternative is. I expect we will have to send extra guards along, if so… another reason for the archery practice tomorrow; I will be leading it, and Captain Narunir had already suggested it be a mixed session, garrison and non-combatants together, so my old friend will join in the practice._

_“Well. It is almost time for the duty guard to take over so I will pause here and continue later with any tales arising from the session; it should prove interesting…”_

*  
…and it had been interesting; the mix of garrison, village, and palace personnel made for a range of abilities that kept Triwathon alert, enabled him to play off one group against another, to banter and tease and pull better performances from everyone because of the archer at the next station along, and all had been fine and easy until Thindorion had shown up…

_(Thindorion with a bow almost as old as himself, an open-throated shirt and a snug tunic, his hair braided out of the way but showing off the bones of his fine face, his throat and neck and the elegant sweep of his ears… how long had his face been so beautifully-structured…? and Triwathon standing behind him, cupping his elbow, touching his shoulder, adjusting his stance, so near, inhaling the fresh, warm scent of him, and why would Triwathon tremble, now, when they were here, in public, and nothing could be done…?)_

Time between the archery session and the evening somehow passed, although Triwathon could not have said how he had occupied himself or what orders he had given – certainly, his part-written letter to Parvon lay neglected in the drawer – instead he was wholly overthrown by the intensity of his responses to Thindo’s proximity during the practice… which led him to thinking how naturally they had fallen back into talking last night, how Thindorion had been so easy to open up to, so kind, how wise, how…

How he had said he liked Triw more now than he had back then…

_How he had not definitely said, no, I do not think you are my fëa-mate but had left the answer to the question unsaid…_

Somehow that was the thought that preyed on him; all the rest seemed to combine to make more of it; the trembling when they touched, the recognition of Thindorion’s attractiveness, the memory, now, of all his kindnesses when Triw had been so young and so foolish he couldn’t even refuse a drink from Red, let alone other things… but always Thindo had been there to say, did you really mean to go there, Little-elking, did you really want to drink so much, to be so foolhardy, to pick that fight…?

And now he was here.

But tomorrow he would be gone, and in a few weeks, a couple of months, perhaps, they would be forever sundered.

*

The satisfaction of having touched a nerve in his king kept Parvon quietly, gently satisfied all the way back to the King’s Office. He greeted Master Baudh with a smile and a nod, and paused to speak with Master Melion, reminding himself that to speak of Melion’s offer to uproot his family on Parvon’s behalf would be a breaking of his word to the king… although he was sorely tempted, for Melion looked out of sorts, his usual smile missing and his eyes fraught.

‘Master Melion? Is there anything in particular you need me to work on this morning?’ he asked, as near an offer of help as he dared risk without being too blatant. ‘I have some work from our king, but it is not desperately urgent…?’

Melion forced a smile back onto his face.

‘You are very kind, Master Parvon. At present, no, but if anything arises, I will call on you. Did your meeting go well, do you think?’

‘It is never easy to say…’ Parvon sighed. ‘I am now leading something called the Division of Matters Transitional, apparently. It is a grand title, I think, but does not quite trip off the tongue…’

He paused as, from the doorway to his workroom, Baudh sniggered and Melion smiled more naturally.

‘If I confide in you that Baudh here suggested your department be called the Office of Comings and Goings, you may find yourself warming to the title, I hope?’

‘Ai, yes, that sounds like somewhere I would not want to work, in all truth! It is something, to have a divisional name, I suppose… and, rather delightfully, I proved to his majesty that my sense of humour – or of endurance – was greater than his, for once. And so, now I am officially instructed to do so, I can no longer avoid delving into the logistical mysteries of getting a group of elves, and their baggage, to Ithilien… on foot is apparently important, so they might properly say farewell to the forest.’

‘Then I will wish you a joyous morning, Master Parvon,’ Melion said, ‘and Baudh has already found the maps for you and put them on the table by your window.’


	61. Underling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon finds himself somewhat insulted...

The knock at Parvon’s door came just as he was becoming tired of the maps and papers which now covered every surface of his office; the journey to Ithilien was not as simple as it might appear, compounded by Thranduil’s stricture that the elves walk to the prince’s colony… it would have been much simpler to send them through the forest and then put everyone on small boats to float down the Anduin to Ithilien, but, of course, if his majesty did not wish it…

‘Yes? Please enter.’

Melion stood in the doorway and tilted his head, his voice tense and formally polite.

‘Master Parvon? Could you spare me a few moments of your time, please?’

‘Of course.’

Curious, and really almost anxious, for Melion seemed to be having a terrible morning for some reason, Parvon made his way to the outer office where an ellon he felt he should remember, but only vaguely, was standing with a near-scowl on his face.

‘Melion, I told you, I will not be palmed off on a…a… an underling!’

Melion inclined his head to Parvon in a silent apology. From his doorway, Baudh winced, and retreated.

‘Master Parvon, would you be so good as to recount for Master Ravomen here exactly what your duties here currently are?’

‘Certainly. Master Ravomen, I am Parvon, newly returned to the Old Palace. I sometimes oversee his majesty’s public audiences, but my real responsibility is the Division of Matters Transitional; I am the elf who rehomes those elves displaced by the disbanding of the New Palace and, since many find their hearts are no longer content in the forest, I am making arrangements for them to sail to the Undying Lands…’

‘Oh. Then it really is you I need to speak to.’ Ravomen glared at Melion as if he were personally to blame for everything that was wrong in the forest. ‘Well. Lead on. But don’t think I will forget how… helpful… you have been, Melion!’ 

Melion clenched his jaw and bowed.

‘It is the honour of the King’s Office to serve,’ he said. ‘I am sure Master Parvon will give you every assistance.’

‘This way, Master Ravomen.’ 

Parvon gave a formal upper-body bow and led the elf into his workroom; Ravomen made straight for the maps.

‘So you’re looking into the journey?’ he began. ‘I’m glad someone around here is efficient. We’ll take a ship down the river to Ithilien, I assume, and swap onto the bigger craft there?’

‘In fact, no,’ Parvon said, taking his place behind the desk and gesturing Ravomen to the seat opposite him. ‘It is the king’s wish that those sailing should walk to Ithilien.’

‘But that’s ridiculous! It will take two or three times as long, then there’s all the baggage! No, it’s impossible…’

‘If you wish to pass your opinion on to his majesty, then I will not attempt to prevent you,’ Parvon said, smiling, trying not to dislike this elf without good reason, although being referred to as an underling was insult enough, almost... ‘However, he is our Elvenking, and this is his kingdom. I cannot defy him in this, and so I am looking at the logistics of the longer journey as he has requested.   
Now, how may I serve, Master Ravomen?’

‘Is not it obvious? I want to take ship…’

‘Very well; there are a few questions which I must note down… do you sail alone, or…?’

‘With my wife.’

‘Very good. And your wife’s name?’

A stunned, offended silence. Then:

‘Do you _jest_ , scribe?’

‘Not as a rule, no.’

'How can it be that you do not know my connections?’

‘Perhaps for the same reason that you have apparently forgotten I used to be his majesty’s Chief Advisor. In fact, it is many centuries since I could be considered an underling and it is two decades since I gave up my position as Elf-in-Charge here to work in the New Palace; I am very lately returned, and have had more pressing matters on hand than committing to memory the names of all the elves still here; if you would enlighten me, we may proceed…?’

‘Cullasbes. My wife’s name is Cullasbes.’ 

Ravomen had the grace to look abashed, but his voice was defiant, as if the name was of significance… Parvon had a vague feeling that it was, but could not spare the time, just then, to track it down in his memory…

‘Thank you. So, just the two of you?’

‘Yes. But we need four berths…’

‘I doubt that will be possible for me to arrange…’

‘But we are merchant traders! We wish to take with us a nucleus of materials we deem necessary for establishing a business over in Valinor…’

‘I was simply attempting to inform you, Master Ravomen, that the assignation of quarters on the ship is not part of my remit; it is an Ithilien vessel, and the shipmasters will have ultimate authority – I understand they even have the authority to deny a place in their ships to any they see fit to exclude.’

‘But we are promised a welcome in the Undying Lands…’

‘Well, yes, but the manner of travelling thence is traditionally from the Grey Havens, or from the mouths of Anduin; you would still need to find a ship to take you there. The Ithilien initiative is not purely an elvish venture, but makes use of some of the Men in the region and is overseen by the Silvan and Mannish colonies jointly. I have already been informed that there is a finite number of berths on this particular ship, and even now the list of elves enquiring for places threatens to exceed the spaces available.’ For the moment Parvon kept to himself the fact that the journeying elves were expected to carry their own luggage; Ravomen seemed annoyed enough without that. ‘At present, I am still in the early stages of organisation, but now I have your details, as soon as matters are more certain, I will make sure you are informed.’

‘See that you do,’ Ravomen said. ‘See to it personally; I am not sure that Master Melion can always find time to keep me informed of those matters which concern me.’

‘It is true that the King’s Office is understaffed at present,’ Parvon said, rising to his feet and going to the door to open it for Ravomen to pass through. ‘There are few underscribes to do the filing and similar, and no underlings at all, so we must all take turns. But still, we are keeping up. Good day to you, Master Ravomen.’

There was nobody visible in the outer office, so Parvon walked the elf out, glad to see the back of him. He turned towards his own workspace just in time to hear a snatch of impassioned speech from within Baudh’s workroom:

‘I do not care if his majesty thinks it would noble of me to rescind my place for Parvon, I am not travelling through the forest with… with That Ellon at any cost! Thranduil can throw me in the cells first, I…’

Parvon passed quietly into his office and fastened the door with equal silence, the words repeating in his mind…

…and then he realised exactly who Ravomen was and why the name Cullasbes had seemed familiar.

Cullasbes was the mother of Melion and Baudh – and Canadion and Caraphindir, too, of course. But their father was Merenor, not Ravomen…

It was a sad tale, in many ways, and spoke of a different ethos, a different necessity for the Silvan population. In times past, those who had not found their fëa-mate and felt it unlikely to happen, or those with different tendencies, had often been encouraged to make vows with someone compatible, for the sake of having a family, of elflings. Such had been the case for Master Merenor and Mistress Cullasbes.

But short vows were not always held as binding under such circumstances, and so those who had entered into such arrangements and whose families were grown, or were elflings had never appeared, were permitted to seek annulment and move on with their lives. For Master Merenor, it had been a good move; he had met his forever-love, and was now happily, enthusiastically married to his Hanben; presumably something similar had happened with Ravomen and Cullasbes, although why there was such… such hostility between Melion, who had his father’s easy temper and friendly nature, and Ravomen was a mystery to Parvon…

A knock at his door and Melion entered in a little, stifled shuffling motion as if he’d been pushed. He paused to glare back over his shoulder, and Baudh’s head appeared round the door.

‘Take all the time you need, brother,’ he said. ‘I’ll guard the doors!’

A heavy sigh before Melion spoke.

‘I despair of Baudh, at times… Master Parvon, forgive the intrusion…’

‘Will you sit? And if you wish to share what’s troubling you, Melion, I have had my fill of maps for the moment, and would gladly rest from the thought of the journey to Ithilien…’

‘Thank you, Parvon, you’re very kind. And you are not an underling, I have never thought of you as such, we all work here for the good of the kingdom, I apologise you were spoken of in such a way…’

From the drawer of his desk Parvon drew out a small flask and two cups. He tilted a judicious amount into each of the drinking cups and pushed one towards Melion. 

‘I inherited the notion of emergency spirits from Lord Arveldir,’ he said. ‘In the New Palace, your Faerveren has charge of the keys to the desk; being not over-fond of the stuff, he can usually tell a real emergency from thirst…’

Melion smiled, didn’t quite laugh. 

‘I have never felt like an underling here, Melion,’ Parvon said. ‘You have been consistently welcoming and diligent in making sure our different duties do not make me feel there is a difference in status. I had an interesting conversation this morning,’ he added abruptly. ‘Unfortunately, I have been asked not to mention that the Elf-in-Charge of the King’s Office has decided it would be a kindness to me if he made himself, and all his family, sad by moving to Ithilien so that I can take over his role. In fact, this would make me as unhappy as it would, in all likelihood, make them. But he is a generous individual, unstinting in his kindness and the welcome he has provided…’

‘Stop, please!’ Melion’s voice was little short of anguished. ‘Please, Parvon, I… this was not my idea, so I cannot take credit for the kindness you see in the suggestion… although I, too, am unable to explain that it was put to me this would be a wise course of action. Had not I discovered that… that the ellon with whom you assisted, that he intended to make the journey, I would, of course, have proceeded… and still, I may yet take up a posting away from here, but I am loath to go anywhere with him… perhaps you do not know the story…?’

‘I would not put you through the distress of explaining… I know he is now the husband of your mother; it cannot be easy, I am sure, especially with as loving a father as you…’

‘Easy!’ Melion’s voice was bitter. ‘No, never easy! Simpler, perhaps, when they were in the south of the forest, but, of course, the war brought them back and there has been an uneasy truce between us; it is not that my mother has found someone happiness with someone else, you understand; that would be unfair of me to say, given my father’s happy marriage, but… and, understand, I found my forever-love when I was very young, so all was simple for me, but… but that… and it is not widely known… my mother and her current husband had known each other for far longer than is publicly admitted to; my father kept his vows, all that time, and gave up so much for our sakes, and she sent him to work away, saying it was so he could not be a bad influence, but really so that she and… and him… it is so unfair! I can tolerate him, since I must, but travel with him I will not do, or there will be a kinslaying…’

‘What generally happens?’ Parvon asked. ‘That is, it cannot be the first time he has come to the King’s Office…?’

‘Ah.’ Melion gave a smile. ‘Usually, Ada is here, and is out of his office like an arrow from the string! He is delightfully helpful to Master Ravomen and explains it as being grateful to him for making sure he has never had to feel guilty about ending his vows with my mother…’

It may have been inappropriate to laugh but Parvon had such a strong impression of the helpfulness of Master Merenor, that he could not help himself. Melion, too, joined in.

‘Ah, that is better! My father never fails us, even when he is not here!’ 

‘Melion, I hope you understand that I don’t want your job,’ Parvon said, gesturing towards the main office with his cup. ‘I want my old job, I want to be there, in the New Palace, helping at its death as I helped during its birth; I could not simply slot back in to my previous life, even if there were a need for me to do so.’

‘Are you sure?’ Melion asked. ‘That is, his majesty seemed so certain that the reason your spirits sometimes drop is because you are working in a subordinate position and regretting that you no longer are in charge here…’

‘Not at all,’ Parvon insisted. ‘Rather, I am relieved not to have the constant responsibility of keeping our king in check any longer; I had forgotten how tiring it could be… But I cannot see what is to be done; we have both betrayed his majesty’s confidence and so can neither of us protest his arrangements. I suppose the only valid argument we might marshal is that, since I am tasked with organising the journey, it ought to be my responsibility to accompany the elves making it… but then, I do not expect the arrival of elves from the New Palace region to slacken off very soon, and really, they look to me for support… I do not really know what alternative there may be…’

‘I do not suppose there is any chance that you will be allowed to return to the New Palace? For then, I am sure my Ada would love to ride to Ithilien, with Honour-Ada Hanben helping, and that would just be exactly what both Naneth and Master Ravomen deserve…’

‘That would suit me very well, but no, it has been made clear to me that I am not expected to return for a goodly time, unfortunately. Although… Melion, how attached to your mother is Canadion?’

‘I do not quite follow, Parvon…?’

‘If he knew she was taking ship, would he wish to say goodbye to her?’

‘He is kind-hearted, yes, I am sure he would. Else he might feel guilty about her…’

‘I had thought of a possible solution; Master Ravomen could make his own arrangements to travel to Ithilien, and once there, he could arrange for berths on the ship himself; of course, there is a long list of elves who have already told me they wish to sail, and I am honour-bound to reserve places for them, of course. Were I to tell Master Ravomen this, he would hasten to leave as soon as might be possible, I am sure, before my request for berths arrives… this would get him out of your way more quickly, but if your brother wished to say his farewells, it complicates the timing…’

‘Or…’ Melion brightened, the glint back in his gold-tinted eyes. ‘Or… you could tell Master Ravomen to hasten down, reserve the places, and then Naneth can travel with the convoy; I would have no issue in travelling with just Naneth, and it gives time for Canadion to say his farewells here first; or he may wish to ride guard for the convoy, he and his Thiriston. My understanding is that they are not actually assigned to the New Palace Garrison?’

‘That is correct; they had arrived for Yule, of course, be volunteered their services freely when the dragons attacked… I believe they had spoken to Triwathon about a posting there, but, of course, that will not happen now… I think Canadion could easily make the trip down to the Old Palace, though.’

Melion grinned.

‘Will you mention it to Commander Triwathon in the messages, or shall I?’


	62. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thindorion explains the real reason behind his visit...

Evening came in the New Palace, the garrison orders were given, the watch in place, and Triwathon was still not properly present in himself until he stood in front of the looking-glass to tidy his hair. 

Something about the sight of his own hands to his head as he unwound his braids prior to remaking them reminded him, abruptly, of Parvon plaiting his hair back so the strands wouldn’t tangle around his throat as if he were being throttled, and he wondered whether or not his friend the advisor would approve of his friend the dyer… 

He sighed as he reached for a comb. Probably not; Parvon didn’t seem to approve of any of Triwathon’s friends, and, had he realised Triw was the one Thindo was seeking, perhaps the reunion would never have happened…

No. That was doing Parvon a disservice. But still, Triwathon was sure Parvon would not approve this old, old friendship…

Perhaps he shouldn’t dine with Thindorion tonight, perhaps he should send apologies, claim he was needed at one of the watch flets; he could actually head out to one of the perimeter stations, in case anyone asked, perhaps…

Perhaps and perhaps and perhaps…

No. This was foolish, and he wasn’t even sure why he was considering backing out, what was he thinking…? Thindo had come a long way to say goodbye; the least he could do was spend a little time with him. And, after all, it was winter, and it had been cold on the practice ground that morning, perhaps that was why Triwathon had trembled, he had simply been shivering from the cold…

And, anyway, why should it matter? Why could he not just be how he felt he wanted to be, why did he have to consider his station and responsibilities, and… and Parvon’s approval, and when exactly did he become so _old…?_

_And why had Thindo not said, ‘oh, Elkling, you are nice, but you are not my fëa-mate,’ what reason could he have to leave the suggestion alive…?_

And what should Triwathon do about it?

*

When Thindorion opened the door with a greeting on his lips, Triwathon stepped forward and put his arms round him.

‘Hullo, Thindo.’

‘Hello yourself… and now you decide to give me a hug? Not when I arrived yesterday, or even last evening when you were leaving, or…?’

‘Well.’ Triwathon smiled, speaking against the side of Thindorion’s face. ‘Yesterday, I was on duty, and not sure what your circumstances might be. And last evening, I was… a little unbalanced, after my outburst of sorrow. It would not have been fair.’

‘And now?’ Thindorion relaxed his own arms, but Triwathon, instead of breaking away, used the pause to reinstate the hug.

‘And now, I have my wayward emotions for the dead settled and back where they belong, in the memories of my heart, not my heart itself. Now I can hug you and it be for you, Thindo, not for me pretending it is for you.’

Thindorion drew away, smiling and gently disengaging from Triwathon’s arms. 

‘I tried to tell you yesterday how it was for me,’ he said. ‘I have always admired you and wanted you from afar, knowing you were another elf’s elf. And now, here you are, within arm’s reach, and I don’t know if that’s good or bad… or wonderful…’

‘One thing I learned, Thindo; I don’t want to be any elf’s elf any more, I want to be my own elf, to be Triwathon. And I think with you I can be that, you will let me be Triwathon and you will be Thindorion.’ Triwathon reached out again, not to hug his friend this time, but to hold him, hands gentle on his arms. ‘Last night, you said… didn’t say… but we said a lot of things, and…’ He tipped his head in a sort of a shrug. ‘You asked if I had thought Red was my fëa-mate, but when I spoke of being concerned lest you declare yourself mine, you did not say…’ His words began to speed from his lips and all unaware, his hands gripped Thindorion’s arms more tightly… ‘and it has been on my mind, why did you ask, but why did you not say unless it mattered and why should it matter…? And…’

‘Elkling.’ Thindorion dipped his head forward to rest on Triwathon’s brow. ‘Elkling, shush. It’s fine, nothing to worry about.’

‘Last night…’

‘Last night was raw for you, and not much less so for me. Last night was not a night to say yes, or no, because both or either could have hurt you. Or me. Or both of us.’ Thindorion’s voice was low, and soft. ‘But this morning… I saw something in your eyes and felt something in your touch and for Valar’s sakes, Elkling, you’ve a grip on you and I think I’d rather you hugged me again than kept up this infernal squeezing of my biceps…’

A startled laugh from Triwathon who had been listening with all his body to Thindo’s words. Now he relaxed his grip on his friend’s arms and stepped forward to hold him, to hug very, very gently.

‘I am sorry. There, is that better?’

‘Oh, much better, but now I’m thinking perhaps I should have waited… Triwathon, what sort of a hug is this?’

‘Any sort of a hug you want it to be, Thindo.’

‘Hmm… well. I’d like it to be… Oh, Elkling, I’d like it to be one that has you, and me, in the other room, lying down, and then… but last night you were so… unsettled and…’

‘And is that why you still haven’t answered me? Or will you tell me? Or… or I have heard it said, that sometimes, an elf can know as soon as he sees someone he’s found his forever-love. But other times it does not happen like that, it takes a touch, or a kiss, or… more. So perhaps it is that sort of a hug, the kind to tell me what you will not…’

‘Perhaps I just don’t know the answer. Perhaps it is something to be avoided, or feared, because what if…?’

‘But then, what if not…?’ Triwathon leaned back, half closed his eyes, and allowed himself to relax and smile from the fëa as he granted himself permission to explore the what-if and what-if-not to the fullest. ‘I think, before you sail and put us out of each other’s reach, we owe it to ourselves to find out, do not you?’

‘Ai, Little-elkling… what am I to say to that?’

‘I think you should say, yes, Little-elkling.’ Triwathon snuggled his arms more closely around his friend. ‘That is, unless you object…?’

He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice, to sound confident and amused, but he wasn’t quite sure he managed it. And Thindo was laughing now, so perhaps he hadn’t sounded at all how he’d hoped… but suddenly, he really, really wanted this elf…

‘Elkling! It is but that I… to be honest with you?’ He pulled back against Triwathon’s arms and walked, danced him backwards into the room, sat down on the sofa so that Triwathon must needs do the same; somehow, the embrace stayed intact, arms loosening, but not losing contact. ‘…and I want to be honest with you, above all else! It’s about time I was, I think…’

‘So, what is this, Thindo? Is now the moment when you tell be about the lovely elleth and the little Thindorionion waiting for you somewhere…?’

Thindorion grinned, shaking his head and adjusting his hands on Triwathon’s arms.

‘No, Elkling, it’s the moment when I confess that the whole point of my coming to see you before I sail was to see if I could seduce you first… Yes, last night, I could have said then, but… but I still wanted you, still want you, Elkling; I thought that if I mentioned Red, I could talk you into bed as I consoled you for the loss of him… and then you grew so distressed about your Balrog-slayer that I felt really very ashamed of myself; it would have been wrong, last night. But the time is now that I must confess that while I have always, always wanted you, I think I’ve always known you were unlikely to be my fëa-mate… it hasn’t stopped me thinking about you, sweetheart. I’m sorry I deceived you.’

‘Oh. Thindo, I don’t know if I should be flattered or… or a little bit hurt…’ Triwathon took a breath. ‘But there is not time to be offended, and to make you apologise until it no longer hurts, so I forgive you. Let it be seen, then, I came to you willingly with the suggestion that we lie down together. It is true that last night could have been a terrible mistake. I have made enough of those! But now, here we are…’

‘Wonder of wonders, here we are, and this morning on the range, when you touched me, it was… I did not think I could bear to wait to be private with you, Elkling, and now you are here, in my arms…’

‘Ah. I thought, rather, that you were in my arms,’ Triwathon said, and kissed him.

‘Well, I don’t mind if you don’t mind,’ Thindo replied, when he could breathe, and kissed him back.


	63. Parvon's Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Master Parvon finds his evening spent in a very unusual fashion...

It being decided that, since Cullasbes and Ravomen’s’ leaving for the Undying Lands was a family matter more than a King’s Office issue, Melion would write to Canadion by the next convoy and spare Parvon the trouble.

‘…and I am sure Faerveren will wish to see his Daernaneth before she leaves, too,’ Melion had added. ‘In which case, there will be need of someone with the relevant experience to go to the New Palace, do not you think…? I will certainly put the notion in his majesty’s head, for you…’

‘I do not think he will listen,’ Parvon said sadly. ‘But I am grateful to you for the thought. Well. I promised Master Ravomen I would let him know of any developments as soon as they happened… and if I did not think that I am busy until tomorrow, and could only spare time to visit him, perhaps at home, this evening; but I should not like to overstep my authority…’

Melion brightened.

‘Oh, I am sure his evening cannot hold anything of equal importance to the work of the King’s Office. No, as much as it is in my power to give orders, Master Parvon, I would charge you not to delay, but go to him this evening! I will see you get back the time spent on this errand, I assure you!’

*

Thus Parvon was tasked with the happy duty of informing Master Ravomen that he had thought of a way to expedite matters, and delivering the message that evening showed just how eager he was to help restore the reputation of the King’s Office, of course, and not at all because disrupting Ravomen’s evening might cause him any sort of annoyance…

‘But I know you!’ a regal elleth said, as he stood patiently at her open door. ‘Except you went away; you cannot be here, you are elsewhere…’

‘Two decades ago, I went to serve in the New Palace, and now I am back,’ Parvon said. ‘I am currently leading the Division of Matters Transitional, which includes making arrangements for those wishing to travel to Ithilien in order to take ship; your husband asked me to keep him informed of my progress as soon as possible.’

‘But it is evening! How very odd of Ravomen, he knows I am going out…’

‘Mistress Cullasbes, do not worry; there is no need for you to be present, and therefore do not permit me to detain you; I can speak to Ravomen alone since he came to me so, alone…’

This did not seem entirely to the liking of Mistress Cullasbes.

‘And what is it about, may I ask?’

‘About arrangements for your potential journey to Ithilien to take ship across the Sundering Seas, Mistress Cullasbes.’

‘Oh. That. You had better come in, then. Not that we are not quite capable of arranging our own journey…’

She led the way and called out as she did so, summoning Ravomen from the depths of the rooms beyond the main living area. Parvon was gestured towards a chair near a table on which sat a decanter and glasses, but no refreshments were offered. Not that he was thirsty, but it was polite to ask so that he could refuse with equal good manners…

‘What are you doing here at this hour?’ Ravomen demanded and then, realising how brusque he sounded, had the grace to blush. ‘That is, to interrupt your evening…’

‘I have no evenings, Master Ravomen; I am a single ellon and in service of the king. In such cases, one is always on duty. You wished to be informed as soon as I had news of the travel arrangements, if you recall…?’

‘Ah. Yes, yes, I see. And is it arranged, then?’’ 

‘Not quite. But I thought it best to let you know that the tally of berths available for my reservation is now filled, and I am charged with sending a list, by hawk, within the next few days. If it is still your wish, as discussed, to secure more space than just for yourselves, I can only recommend that one of you set off at once to negotiate…’

‘But I do not understand,’ Cullasbes said, ‘did you not tell him, Ravomen? Master Parvion, did not my husband explain we need more berths…?’

‘Parvon, I am Parvon, Mistress. And yes, it was explained to me, and in turn, I explained how it was not possible for me to accommodate you, however much I might wish it. Hence, really, my visit tonight, to suggest alternative means. If you, or Master Ravomen, were to leave tomorrow and make all haste through the forest, then there is an opportunity to negotiate for your baggage space independently, and perhaps better accommodations on board – this is not something I can do, as the Ithilien Project is a joint venture, as I explained to your husband – I am surprised he did not tell you…? No matter.’

‘But I cannot possibly be ready so soon! It will take at least a week to put our business on hold, and sort matters, and then there is all the packing…’

‘And so one of you travelling alone will be much swifter. The other, meanwhile, should stay and make ready. Alternatively, you could wait for the next ship, but I do not know if our king will send one or if, after this vessel, it will be down to the individual families to do their own planning…’

Ravomen nodded. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Cullasbes, dear, you are by far the better manager; I am sure I can leave you to take care of matters here…’

And, seeing said lady preparing to bluster and fluster at her husband, Parvon got to his feet. 

‘In which case, you must have much to do, and I shall leave you to your evening. If you will let me know when you leave, Master Ravomen, it will be very useful. Goodnight to you.’

*

Parvon returned to his desk in the King’s Office and sat down to add the gist of his conversation with Cullasbes and Ravomen to the day notes. He finished and set down his pen with a sigh. Another odd mood was on him tonight, a sense of anticipation and… and a sort of hunger… 

It wasn’t the first such episode today; there had been a point during the morning where he had found himself unaccountably shaking and had had to steady himself against the desk for a moment or two while it passed; he had been alone at the time, which was some comfort, for he would not have liked to be observed in such a weakness…

There was nothing quantifiably amiss; just these odd mood swings and tremors, but he was not usually give to such things, and he resolved, if it should happen again, to pay a call to his friend Healer Nestoril; it could probably wait until the next convoy came in, he could see her then, before they both got busy with newcomers…

…thoughts of the convoy brought the dyer to mind, Thindo… no, Thindorion. Odd, how he had contracted the elf’s name, perhaps because he had seemed so friendly and approachable. Quite personable, in fact, one might say, attractive, even… and if one were not a one-elf elf, he might be rather appealing. But, of course, he was sailing presently, and that did mean he would be coming back to the Old Palace, at least for a time, and Parvon could…

Could what, exactly?

He shook his head; this was most unlike him. To consider striking up a friendship at all was not in his nature; he had always preferred to let people seek him, to take time in discovering their purpose in so doing before embarking on even the most cautious of acquaintanceships, and so this was an unusual response. Shaking his head, he put it down to his present situation; away from where he wanted to be, and far from the people with whom he wished to spend his time.

He checked and double checked the list of elves who had expressed an interest in taking ship; over the next few days, he would have to speak with them and ask if they had thought through their intentions before they made a firm decision to sail; of course, if they were to get all the way to Ithilien, and change their minds, nobody would make them sail; it was merely that if there were more elves than there were places, it would be fairer to know ahead of time…

A sigh. It was growing late, the lamplight pooled and shadowed in the room, and he had probably missed second serving in the feasting hall; no matter, he thought as he locked up and headed towards his rooms, he could always bespeak something from the corridor servants if he was hungry.

Pausing in the corridor to unfasten his door, he heard a nearby doorway open and an elleth called out.

‘Master Parvon? Parvon, are you busy?’

Melion’s wife. Parvon reminded himself to smile as he turned. ‘Mistress Gilrin! I hope the evening finds you well?’

‘It does indeed, very well, and if you have a moment, would you care to step in? That is, we have not yet had supper – my Melion was attending tonight and, as you know, when one attends the king to dinner, you do not get chance to eat at all yourself…’

‘I… am grateful, but I could not intrude, and…’

Melion appeared in the doorway behind his wife.

‘Parvon, please come in; we are having a sort of celebratory supper and you are very welcome indeed.’

And Gilrin had reached out a determined, friendly hand to take his wrist and pull him towards her hospitality, and so how could he possibly resist…?

Inside, the room felt full of happiness and cheer; Baudh was there, his arm casually around the shoulders of another elf, Oldor, the same whom Parvon had introduced to Baudh, and it was good to see the young elf looking happier. Baudh raised a glass of something in greeting and grinned. Assorted relations and family friends were crammed into the room, sitting on the arms of furniture and the floor, all looking happy to see him… He shook his head as a sort of cheer rose from one corner where Melion’s grandchildren were gathered.

‘Thank you, Master Parvon!’ someone called out.

‘You are very welcome, penneth,’ Parvon replied with a bow. ‘Although I am not sure how I have earned your gratitude.’

‘Come, food is ready!’ Melion took his arm and led him through ahead of the family to the large dining room which had been created by knocking through into the chambers beyond. ‘And I am very glad you happened by when you did; Baudh had offered to seek you.’

‘I am grateful, of course, but I am still at a loss…?’

‘You have made it possible for me to avoid an uncomfortable journey with That Ellon, for one thing,’ Melion said. ‘Which in itself is deserving of Gilrin’s cooking. But more, that you vouchsafed to me that you categorically did not wish to take over the running of the King’s Office.’ Melion grinned as he pulled back a chair for Parvon. ‘The uncharitable would say, with all this family to find employment for, it is no wonder we are pleased…! But really, Gil and I have been happier here than we ever were down in the southern villages – and there are so many of us, not all could have joined us in Ithilien – we would have outnumbered the colony! So your words have saved us from the contemplation of much upheaval. Ah, here they all come! Sit you, my dears… No, Baudh, not next to Master Parvon, we do not want to form a little workers’ cluster… ah, thank you, Oldor… do you know Parvon, Oldor? – oh, of course you will, from the arrival of the convoy.’

‘Yes, but we knew each other before; I had cause to seek assistance from the Palace Office and Master Parvon was very kind.’ Oldor smiled. ‘And very wise, too, and I am grateful for the introduction to Baudh.’

‘So is Baudh!’ Baudh said, grinning. ‘Oh, Nana Gilrin, this looks wonderful!’

‘I am not your Nana!’ Gilrin said, slapping his wrist as he reached to grab a pot she had not yet set down. ‘If you were, you’d have had better manners!’

‘And a happier childhood!’ Baudh murmured, still grinning. ‘But I beg your pardon, and can we EAT now, please?’

It was a convivial, if bewildering, evening. From the gratitude and smiles heaped upon him by relatives of Melion whom Parvon hadn’t even realised existed, one might imagine him to have saved Melion’s life rather than from just a little social discomfort, but so it seemed. After the meal had ended, he was pressed to stay, and drink a glass of wine, and not only would it have been rude to decline, but impossible to have got to the door… 

‘Just the one, my thanks. I have matters still to attend to this evening…’

‘Take the morning off!’ Baudh said. ‘Melion and I can cover for you.’

‘Of course!’ Melion said. ‘Although I am sure you work so hard, a morning will do no harm.’

‘I am grateful.’ 

But after he had drunk his wine, Parvon rose to leave; the odd mood was on him again and he wasn’t sure if it was the crowd of company causing him to feel disoriented or something else. He thanked Gilrin and found himself hugged, first by her and then it seemed he was passed from elf to elf towards the door until he ended up with Baudh hugging him on the way out.

And, for some reason that entirely escaped him, he hugged back.

‘Oh, finally, Parvon, you have succumbed to my persistent charms!’

Parvon stepped away hastily, clasped his hands behind his back.

‘Rather, let us say, that as you are now… occupied with Master Oldor, you pose less risk to me. But goodnight, Baudh. My thanks once more to Gilrin and Melion.’


	64. Triwathon's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon and Thindorion talk. Amongst other things.

Thindorion was a talker, Triwathon discovered after their first heady joining, and it made him smile, remembering the days when he’d been the one to talk after, desperate for the reassurance of words from Red. But not now, he didn’t have the same needs; perhaps he really had grown up, or grown out of his insecurities and lack of confidence at last. 

Thindo, though… he’d been chattering away as if the silence of all the years of separation needed to be filled in all at once… except it felt as if there was something behind the talking, something hiding in the silences that Triwathon could not yet place…

‘I know you’re not my fëa-mate, Elkling,’ Thindorion began, providing a welcome distraction to Triwathon’s train of thought, ‘I almost wish you were, but… then, I’m also almost glad you’re not, you seem so happy without one…’

‘I found Red so young, and then, not long after his death, after that little mistake I mentioned, I met my Hero of Gondolin, and even when we were apart, I did not want anyone else… But now I want, again, Thindo, I want you; I am a free heart and body, yours if you want, tonight, or you are mine, or we are our own, but together in mutual company. I am sorry; it is ill-mannered of me to mention any but you tonight, even Red, even in passing. So come, I think you deserve a kiss and I need one, and more, perhaps?’

‘A kiss would be plenty, but more would be lovely, Elkling…’

*

Later, toying with Thindo’s hair as he murmured about again, perhaps, please, Valinor was far away, after all, Triwathon found his thoughts unaccountably drifting as he rolled his friend forward onto his knees and cuddled up to push into him…

…as finally, it hit him; the reason behind Thindo’s anxious chatter, the need to fill up the silent pauses between embraces; something, somehow, was slightly… _off_. Not in any way that Triwathon could recognise, but there was an uneasy feeling at the edges of his fëa, as if the air was heavy with portent. It reminded him of the night of the dragon attack, how he and Parvon had both had a sense of something terrible about to happen…

…Sweet Eru, no more dragons, please…! Yet the feeling was no presentiment of danger, he was sure, rather it was just an unease, and Thindo would be gone tomorrow, and they had so little time... 

Pushing his anxiety away, he bit down on the back of Thindorion’s neck and lost himself in the warmth, the heat and the rhythm and the soft sounds and gasps and Thindo responding, tightening and crying out and Triwathon had found his own glorious release. he was being silly, sensing danger where there was none; something about this encounter with Thindo was warm and friendly and just… just so _right_ … it couldn’t be wrong…

_‘Who could follow the Hero of Gondolin, after all…?’_ he had said yesterday, and perhaps only a friend, an old friend, could have helped Triwathon properly gain perspective about his Hero of Gondolin… Certain was it, he had no regrets now about his Balrog-slayer, was no longer caught up in the mystery of him like a fly in a golden web… no, that was unfair, his golden one had never tried to ensnare him, they had been together from mutual want and need (and what if they had fallen in love and it had taken Triwathon longer to fall out of love again?) They had parted friends and, at the last, to hold him, give him comfort during his last breaths, that had been special, that was true friendship, and the love there had been just that, the love of friends…

…as this was a friendly sort of love of another kind; affection and gratitude for old time’s sake, and building sweet memories for Thindorion to carry with him until he found his forever-love…

There was nothing wrong with that, was there? Nothing at all.

_(except… oh, except…)_

Parvon.

_(Why did he have to pick now, of all times, to think about Parvon…?)_

‘Sweet, Elkling, sweet and special, that’s you… I’d never have imagined your loving to be so… well, determined… but gentle, for all that. I suppose I thought you’d be more of a beloved than a lover…’

Well, if Thindo wanted to talk, Triwathon could talk, too, and help hide the tension lurking around them, and this was good, the right sort of interruption to his thoughts, giving him the chance to laugh, and kiss, and remind Thindo that he was Commander Triwathon now, and why be surprised if he gave orders…?

‘Oh, but Little-elkling, it didn’t sound like orders, it sounded like suggestions, and very clever suggestions, too, the way you put it… and the way you said things, all added to the mood, and I really wish I didn’t have to leave in the morning… What would happen if I refused to go, do you think…?’

‘Nothing nice, I am afraid!’ Triwathon said it with a smile in his voice. ‘We already have one elf who refused his seat in a wagon, and he is now in the cells…’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Not in the slightest. He had been very rude to our lovely Healer Maereth, though.’ He gave an overstated sigh. ‘But you see, Thindo-nin, I am not the duty captain for the convoys, you will be under Narunir’s watchful eye… if you do not present yourself in a timely fashion, he will come looking for you…’

‘And what if you open the door to him, wearing just your skin and your smile?’ Thindo said, laughing through the thought.

‘Ai, Narunir has his future ahead of him; he would likely arrest me as well, as complicit…’

The image of Narunir trying to arrest him made Triwathon laugh, and Thindorion joined in, but the mirth faded swiftly.

‘I should have come sooner, Elkling.’

‘No. Sooner would have been too soon for me to draw close to you. While my friend the Balrog-slayer was alive, and in Middle Earth, I do not think anyone could have moved me. Several tried, Thindo, don’t think I haven’t been sought… but now was a good time to come.’

‘Elkling, one thing, though… I cannot help it, I am not easy, and I was wondering…’

Triwathon laughed, but there was something in Thindo’s tone that echoed his own underlying mood.

‘What? What, then, are you wondering?’

‘You said yesterday, there was someone who thought he was your fëa-mate… thought, or thinks? Should… should we be doing this…?’

Was that it? Was this why Thindo had been talking, and talking, and talking…? In any case…

‘It’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it?’ Triwathon sighed. ‘We have already done it. And lovely too, if I may say, Thindo…’

‘No, but… I would not like to find I have hurt another’s fëa, even by accident…’

‘I do not think you should worry; It is true, there is an elf who thinks he is my fëa-mate, but it does not automatically follow that I must be his, does it? Or I would return the feeling, would I not?’

Thindorion did not answer directly. Instead, he looked across into his Triwathon’s eyes with every appearance of losing himself there.

‘I think I am greedy, I want more of you, Triwathon, even though we are not fëa-mates… I don’t suppose… I know it is a lot to ask, but… would you sail with me?’ And as Triwathon drew breath to reply Thindo went on, ‘If you think about it, we are nice together, and…’

‘I couldn’t possibly leave P…’ Triwathon broke off before he finished saying the name ‘Parvon’, turned it into something else almost smoothly. ‘…Palace duties, the New Palace, my duties require me to oversee the security of the region while the villages are dismantled and the people resettled, and the New Palace itself, it must still be a guard post for the area, just because we have seen off one nest of dragons does not mean all the dangers are gone, and…’

‘Peace, my Little-elkling!’ Thindo propped himself up on one elbow, looking down into Triwathon’s face and startled to see what may have been tears at the edges of his eyes. ‘Of course, if your duties will not permit it, I understand. There is no need to get so upset…’

‘I am not upset!’ Triwathon pushed himself up in the bed, gasping out the words. ‘I am… you surprised me, that is all, I… and it is very flattering of you to want me, Thindo!’

Thindorion laughed and reached up to cup his hand around Triwathon’s face.

‘Oh, Elkling, how could anyone not want you? As lovely as you are, as surprising and loving and still so much fun to be with!’

‘If you would be content to wait, I will be free of my duty in two or three years or so, I can resign my place then and we could sail together, if it still pleased us. Or I could follow you later, perhaps, across the seas…’

Thindorion shook his head. 

‘It would not happen, I think. I need to sail now, it is time for me… I could wait for you in Valinor of course, but what if you did not come? and if I am there and meet my forever-love, what should I do? I am sorry, but just because you can turn your face away from your fëa-mate does not mean I can, or could, and that is how it must be. No, I must go now, as soon as I can get on a ship, and you must choose now, Elkling, if you will stay or if you will come with me. But I can see you have worked hard to get where you are, to achieve all you have, and it is unfair of me to expect you to throw it up just for a pleasant companion. Now, kiss me again, and we will speak no more of it.’

‘Well… since you ask so sweetly…’

But even as their mouths met, Triwathon felt only relief that his friend seemed to understand, for he couldn’t possibly sail, not even for Thindo, he was needed here, he had to be here, and it would take more than an old friend, however sweetly affectionate, to draw him away, and Thindorion’s fëa-mate might be someone in Valinor and…

What had Thindo meant, ‘turn your face away from your fëa-mate…’? How was that even possible, and why would anyone want to?

‘What d…?’ He broke off. Now would not be a good time to ask; the night was aging and as far as Triwathon knew, Thindo hadn’t begun his preparations for the return trip yet.

‘Mmm?’ Thindo mumbled, his mouth being busy on Triwathon’s belly in a way that made him almost forget his unspoken question.

‘…would you like this time? Anything in particular…?’

‘Oh, I think I will let you surprise me!’ Thindorion lifted his head away from the soft skin under his lips and grinned up the length of his body towards him, hands exploring below Triwathon’s hips. ‘I seem to remember talk of games with wine, but our friend the poacher said it sounded wasteful…’

‘Beer,’ Triwathon shook his head. ‘Beer is better, it fizzles in a very interesting way; have you any left?’

*

Triwathon stirred from the lightest of dozes and jumped, startled to find himself in a bed not his own, and with another elf asleep with his head on his chest. A sense of panic flared through him, of having done something terribly wrong…

But why? Thindo had loved every moment of everything… 

He’d been dreaming, that was why he’d woken in such a state, dreams that were too close to memory… the… the messenger, his hands around Triwathon’s neck, the look of outraged fury on Parvon’s face as he pulled the attacker off and hit him… and then, Parvon’s braiding, so gentle his fingers in Triwathon’s hair in spite of the power of his fists… the cold as Triw had sat as close as he could to where his Balrog-slayer had lain in state, growing numb and chilled and uncaring as his mind was haunted by the ghost of the messenger and the only thing that stopped him from giving up was Parvon’s voice, telling him, don’t you dare fade, and all the loss and dread and pain came surging back…

He gasped at the hurt of it and sat up, trying to find a way to distract himself, dislodging the elf sleeping across him as he moved.

‘It’s time to wake, Thindo,’ he said softly, thrusting the panic and pain away. ‘Day is breaking! You must hasten!’

Thindo whimpered and twitched and closed, then opened his sleepy eyes.

‘Mphf?’ he said, blinking.

‘I said, time to get up. Washing cascade, that is. Come, are you even packed?’

The question made Thindorion focus. He shifted onto his back and sat up slowly, sighing.

‘Little-elkling, I didn’t even unpack; I just left it all in my saddle-bags and took things out as I needed them...’

‘Well, you need to get the beer out of your hair. Sticky stuff.’

‘And so do you, I think…’

Thindorion lifted one of Triwathon’s stickier tresses and let it fall; the strands had been welded together by old beer. Gently, Triwathon eased out of the bed, leaning across to kiss Thindorion’s forehead.

‘I can wait for my wash,’ he said as he reached for clothing. ‘But you’re in need of haste; muster for the convoy is less than two hours away…’

‘That soon? But I wanted…’ He broke off. ‘I wanted to have more time with you, one way or another…’

‘Well, while you get ready, I’ll head back to the garrison and check all is well and then join you for breakfast in the main hall, if you like.’

Thindo shook his head.

‘In front of all and sundry, your friends and acquaintances? No, let’s eat here, that way at least I might get another hug as you go… And you’ll be at the wagon, to see me off?’

It was said with a rising lilt of tone, but Triwathon shook his head.

‘I am sorry, I… I must… I never go to the wagons, it looks like I don’t trust my captains if I…’ He heard his own voice begin to rise, saw Thindo’s eyes clench, his smile freeze at the corners, and he felt ashamed of himself; was that what sort of an elf he might become, now his Balrog-slayer was dead, a love-them-and-leave-them romancer, worse than the captain who had so disappointed and abandoned him…? ‘…but it does not matter, no, I can do that for you, I am the Garrison Commander, who will reprimand me if I am not where I am expected to be for once?’ He opened his arms; Thindorion, still naked, sighed and walked into the hug. ‘Thank you, Thindo. It’s been lovel... So, I will get out of these silly clothes – it is habit with me, you know, from early musters, to dress as soon as I wake – and we will share your washing cascade. If you wish, I can first call the corridor servants bespeak food for us – I am the one dressed, after all.’

‘Really, Triwathon? For a moment there, I thought you were abandoning me…’

‘Ha, which one of us is taking ship?’ Triwathon swallowed, shook his head at the panic sense of wrong that still gibbered at his fëa; to abandon Thindo would also be wrong, would compound his guilt…  
‘Thindorion… I am grateful, you know, for this night; I was stuck, somehow, all I could see was the glory of Gondolin’s hero. But now, I have moved beyond him, I can see the warmth of a true, good friendship, and whatever else happens, when you are far away in Valinor, I will hold you in my heart here, a living memory of a living ellon, not a wisp of dead hope, and although we will never meet again, we will always be friends in our hearts…’

‘Never is a long time, Triwathon-elkling…’

‘That is true, and things may yet change. But… I do not see myself sailing, and you do not see yourself staying. Now, I will request breakfast and then help you wash the beer away, yes?’

*

Once they were both free of the stains of the night’s beer spillage, and had eaten quietly together in Thindorion’s rooms, Triwathon pushed away his chair.

‘Thindo, it has been lovely… but I really must go back to the garrison now; I have to authorise the dispatches for the Old Palace, that I cannot delegate.’

‘Thank you, Little-elkling. I’ll say now, of all the beauty and wonders in Middle-Earth, it is you I shall miss the most.’

‘Flatterer! Well, if I do not get chance to say later, I hope your journey is a good one and that you find all you need in Valinor.’

At the door, he opened his arms and Thindorion hugged him.

‘Be well, Little-elkling! I will give Red your regards, but I won’t tell him about last night. That’s a special memory just for me to carry in my heart.’

‘And you. I will do my best to be there to wave your wagon away.’

*

In his office, he reached for the stack of messages to be sent to the New Palace; there was scant time to sign and seal them before they must go to the runner to take to Faerveren for sealing and…

_His letter to Parvon, in the locked drawer of his desk, still unfinished…_

Scanning the messages to make sure there was nothing amiss with them, he signed and folded them, and set them with the already-sealed private missives from the garrison personnel, but didn’t tie up the outer covering yet. He took out his partially-written letter and read it through; ah, he couldn’t send that! It began so cheerfully, in such an easy, joking frame of mind about Thindo and now…

Now Triwathon was beginning to wonder if he’d made a terrible mistake…

Not for Thindorion; his friend seemed really, and deeply glad Triw had spent the night with him, but, oh, Parvon…

Parvon, who had been his rock, his unexpected rescuer, his dearest friend. Parvon, who had known each and every time when Triwathon had needed his help. 

Parvon, who had never thought Lumormen’s lover had been Triwathon, who had reassigned those servants who had been gossiping the tale around. Who had been so sure, as if he had known…

He couldn’t send Parvon a half-written letter that didn’t touch on the sense of… of guilt Triwathon now felt. But nor could he admit to what he’d done…

Ripping up the letter, he reached for fresh writing matter and started again.

_“Dear Parvon,_

_“This is letter is far too short; but Thindorion, whom you sent with the convoy, is my long-ago friend, and there was much to talk over; I..."_

He struck through the words and started again.

_"Dear Parvon,_

_"I think I have made a terrible mistake; Thindorion is leaving forever and I was lonely, and…"_

No. Again and again he tried to get some of the shame and regret and apology out of his fëa and onto the page...

_"Parvon, I am so sorry, I hope you have not discovered what I…"_

_"Parvon, I know you can tell how things are, please do not think less of me…"_

_"Dear Parvon, I am still as foolish as ever I was and"_

_"…Parvon, I am sorry, I…"_

_”Dear Parvon, I…”_

 

‘Commander? Are you done with the dispatches, sir?’

A tap at the door, the formally polite voice of the duty runner.

Already?

‘Oh… yes, I have them here, let me just seal this up…’ He stacked the private messages neatly, put the seal to the garrison dispatches and slid all into a leather satchel, and handed it across. ‘There. Thank you.’

The door closed behind the duty runner, Triwathon surveyed the wreck and ruin of his desk. It was no good; there would be no letter for Parvon this time.


	65. No Peace for Parvon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon has a disturbed night...

_…His hands in Triw’s hair, holding it back from his face, trying to be efficient, business-like, trying not to show how his heart fluttered and danced as he held the damp tresses and carefully braided them up, binding them into a short, practical queue that wouldn’t slip and fall around Triwathon’s neck…_

_…Triwathon’s neck, exposed to Parvon’s gaze, a pulse beating there, the skin so soft and fresh, fragranced with his own washing mixture, the trust implicit in this, in being allowed to stand behind him and touch his hair…_

_…the sight of rough, ugly, hard hands around Triwathon’s throat, his eyes glazed with pain, how dare anyone do this! Parvon reaching, grabbing, pulling the assailant away and delivering a neat punch with all his anger and fear behind it…_

_…Triwathon’s hands so cold as he sat near the table where Glorfindel had lain in state, don’t fade, do not you dare fade…!_

Parvon shuddered and gasped himself awake.

He didn’t often dream of Triwathon, and when he did, it was never usually like this, so close to a remembering of events. It was disturbing and uncomfortable and there was something more to it than just the dream, just the memory; there had been another level to his reverie, a sensual, sweet sense to start but which had dissipated as soon as the first image changed… but the sensuality was back now, lingering in Parvon’s fëa and he knew, he knew what had happened…

Triwathon had found another love.

*

There was no more sleep in Parvon.

Instead, he found himself staring up at the rough rock ceiling, recalling something Triwathon had said back at the New Palace; at the time, it had seemed like a threat, or a promise…

_‘…I think I was so dazzled by Glorfindel that I cannot love again…’_

But now it seemed to Parvon that Triwathon was no longer so blinded by the glory of the Hero of Gondolin that he could not find comfort in another elf’s arms…

He sighed. Triwathon had always been out of his reach, Parvon knew that, in love with his poacher, and then with Glorfindel, to whom he had been constant during their long, long separation – and even after it had ended for them, Triwathon had never really stopped caring; Parvon had come to accept that while Glorfindel of Gondolin was in the world, Triwathon would not look at him. Which was something he had grown used to, as it had also meant Triwathon was not looking at anyone else…

And then Glorfindel had died, heroically, in Triwathon’s arms…

… and then for Triw to have said that, to admit to being still so blinded by the glory of Gondolin that he was certain he would not find love elsewhere… while Parvon had felt pity for Triwathon, still he had drawn some comfort from it, that his own peace would not be shattered by seeing his most beloved friend with one, and then another…

But now that was ended.

There would be no peace for Parvon now.

It wasn’t that he minded, not really, not if Triwathon could be happy; why should he object if the dearest person of his heart was content and at peace? It would be selfish to wish Triw’s happiness depended solely on himself…! But Triwathon might make a mistake, fall for someone who would treat him badly, or leave him heartbroken, or not respect him and…

And even if he had no right to be hurt by Triw’s actions, still, he lay in a misery of despair as he contemplated an eternity of worrying about Triwathon’s safety with only the most meagre crumbs of friendship to sustain him through the pain…

Who might it be, though?

No, that was not a thought he wanted to pursue, but he could not help himself…

Most of the garrison were too far beneath Triwathon’s rank for his sense of rightness; having been himself seduced by a commander when he was grieving his first love may have been the reason for it, but Triw had always frowned on relationships with too big a disparity of rank; much too easy for a captain to over-impress a new recruit… and then some were just not interested in ellyn, even though Triwathon was beautiful, strong and lithe with such wonderful hair and beautifully expressive eyes…

But the only elves close enough in rank to make an encounter acceptable for Triwathon were the captains; and two of those were elleth, and Narunir had not declared for male or female yet, but it seemed unlikely to be him… which really left the elves of the New Palace and its satellite villages, or the visiting warrior elves from Ithilien and the Old Palace… but many had husbands or wives already, and when Parvon thought of whom there was, he did not find anyone he thought likely to appeal to someone as discerning as Triwathon…

Well.

Triwathon was in the New Palace and Parvon was trammelled in the Old, with no hope of leaving… he would have to wait for the next convoy, and see what news that brought.

For once he was not entirely looking forward to the letter from Triwathon, who was not one to hide what was in his heart. No doubt, Parvon would soon have all the information he could wish for, and probably far too many details…

Parvon rose from the bed and went to shower; his hair felt inexplicably dirty… impossible, of course, but… anything to distract him from his current emotional confusion…

Still he couldn’t settle. The night was getting old, but he had nothing to do towards his day’s preparations – Melion had said for him to take the morning off and, really, while he wanted to be busy he did not want to be seen like this, not when he felt that his heart was on the point of breaking all over again…

How many more times could he patch himself up and keep going?

The rooms gifted to him seemed as alien and unwelcoming now as they had at first; he had tried hard not to remember, not to notice how close they were to the guest quarters Glorfindel had used and where Triwathon had visited him, but tonight he could not help but dwell on the fact that Triwathon had walked these corridors with Glorfindel’s arm around his shoulders, and suddenly he couldn’t stay there, couldn’t bear this new life, and so he grabbed one or two essentials and left the rooms assigned to him with a particular place in mind.

He knew the way still, of course; had even been along these corridors once or twice, detouring from the shortest way so that he could walk past the door… it had always been shut, there were never any signs of activity, and so even though he knew there would be disapproval if he were discovered, still, he saw no harm in what he was about to do…

His old chambers. He went back to them now; his old key he had, of course, kept, and he used it now on locks that had never been changed; why would they, when all that lay within was a store of spare linens?

Closing the door softly behind him he placed his lantern in the niche just inside the room in the right-hand wall, as he had always used to do. The familiarity of the simple act calmed him, made him feel safe; this was his place, his sanctuary; his home ever since he had apprenticed himself to Lord Arveldir and the King’s Office, even though he could have stayed in the family rooms; to him it was an important way of signalling his life was elsewhere, in service of the king, not his mother’s early-expressed hopes that he would marry well.

This had been his place of privacy, his own, personal environment which he had shaped to suit himself; as he had matured, so had his chambers evolved to reflect his character; simple and clean, almost austere to the casual eye, but actually holding surprising notes if one looked hard enough; there was one large room which he had furnished with a writing desk which had been crafted from soft, shimmering beech (much to the consternation of the artificer he had approached with the request) but which had been a place of light and inspiration to work at; he regretted now the decision not to take it to the New Palace with him, but it had seemed needless to do so when the intention was for a fresh start. 

Still, he wondered where his desk might be, if it still existed; two decades was not so long, after all.

The narrow sleeping alcove, separated off from the main room by a natural wall of rock which ran almost the length of the chamber, had been barely wide enough for a bed big only for one, but that suited Parvon’s purpose in his early life as it had later; as a young apprentice, he had wanted no distractions, and once his fëa had reached out to Triwathon’s, he wanted no other company, so the restricted space was consoling rather than confining. But on the ceiling above the narrow cot, the rock had been enhanced and decorated with chips of quartz or amethyst or citrine which had come into Parvon’s possession; it was not quite a starscape, but it was close enough for him as he had lain in bed at night and pondered his future.

Now Parvon sighed as he looked around. No longer a place of calm, the alcove wall could not be seen for the trunks and bales of bedding piled against it. Similarly, the wall where his desk had been was filled with various stacks of boxes and linens, and where he had kept two chairs for sitting – not that he ever expected company, but two chairs balanced the room and to have just one would have perhaps engendered needless pity in his rare visitors or in the cleaning crew – that space was currently occupied by two vast coffers. 

Yet there was something about the disarray that spoke to the turmoil in his heart, and the sense of calm he had felt when he’d set his lantern in place had not entirely escaped him. It was obvious from the labels on some of the boxes that these items had been stored for five years or more without being needed and so he began to explore the contents, to consolidate and rearrange and move items out into the corridor, leaving them neatly and compactly stacked in what had once been a utility alcove when the corridor had been inhabited by elves rather than by linens, and by doing so, by reordering his surroundings, he slowly, unconsciously, reordered his emotions.

Yes, Triwathon had found solace amongst the elves of the New Palace… but how much more painful would it have been had Parvon been there to see it happen? He had been spared that, at least! And it was just Triwathon’s way; he was still, in many ways, the same insecure elf he had always been; it was just that he hid it well. As Commander of the Garrison, he was confident and a strong leader, but as Triw, the private person Parvon had come to know, he was less certain of himself… Glorfindel’s death had hit him hard, but so, too, was the fact that it had been Glorfindel and his Rivendell friends who had seen off most of the dragons; that would have rankled, once Triwathon had time to notice it, and so perhaps this was his way of distracting himself…

Soon, tired and dusty, Parvon had the way to the sleeping alcove cleared; a swing of his lamp showed him it, too, was full of unwanted linens, but his starscape was still there, glittering overhead. The sight giving him new energy, he plunged in and dragged out case after case of fabric which made him sneeze and his hands itch, but he pressed on, tugging out at last the edges of a dust sheet under which, wedged in sideways, was his beloved desk.

Seeing it took him back twenty years, back before this current anguish, back when he was used to longing for Triwathon but not seeing him often, back when he knew who he was and where he was and what his days would hold, back when his service seemed to matter…

Back when he still had a sort of hope for his future and he maintained an equilibrium that allowed him to function in peace.

Perhaps, if he were resolute, he might regain that equilibrium again.

But he doubted he would be able to find the same sort of peace.


	66. Uncomfortable Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon is confused...

And suddenly, it was time. 

Triwathon rose from the litter of his desk, left his uniform coat hanging over his chair and put on an informal jerkin before making his way to the musterpoint.

He stood back, just inside the doorway watching the activity for a moment. Outside, three wagons waited, the horses being harnessed in place while families and single travellers gathered together around their belongings and waited to climb on.

Narunir’s escort company were busy about the wagons, helping to load belongings, and there was a familiar figure leaning against one of the wheels chatting easily to Narunir… 

Triwathon swallowed, guilt coming back to haunt him. Thindorion had been a good friend all those years ago; he deserved more than just two days, one night… but the elf did not seem sad, laughing and joking with the escort elves.

‘Oh, Thindo!’ Triwathon mouthed the words silently but the elf looked up, and seemed to catch sight of him there, in the shadows, dropping his pack into the wagon bed and loping over.

He reached out to Triwathon’s collar, pretending to straighten it and laughed as he took the opportunity to tap Triwathon’s chin with casual affection.

‘Hello! You’re here!’

‘Hello yourself, Thindo. I said I’d try to, and…’ Triwathon shrugged, fearful of saying something at this point to hurt his friend. ‘So. You’ve a long journey to Ithilien and the ship. I hope it goes smoothly for you.’

‘I almost wish I wasn’t going… but I know it’s the right thing for me now. You were the last thing I needed to do, oh, that sounds wrong! Saying goodbye, I mean. And last night… thank you!’ Thindo’s smile broke into a beaming grin. ‘I have a store of sweet, private memories to warm me forever.’

Triwathon shook his head, smiling, suddenly shy. ‘It was, indeed, a memorable night. Thindo, I…’ He opened his arms and hugged his friend. ‘Take care, my dear friend. Be well.’

‘And you, Little-elkling.’

The hug lasted just exactly long enough to be almost too long. A call from Narunir for stragglers made Thindo sigh.

‘I suppose that means it’s time to go.’

‘Thindo… no regrets?’

‘Only that I didn’t come sooner. I’ll be fine, do not you worry about me!’ Thindorion began to make for his wagon, walking backwards. ‘I’ll not want for company, never fear; I think I will pay a visit to that helpful ellon in the King’s Office, who arranged this for me… Parvon, is it? He has nice eyes, even if he does look sad… but perhaps I can cheer him! Farewell, now!’

*

Triwathon stood staring as Thindorion loped away and leapt into the wagon, turning to wave as the horses moved off.

…but… but how dare he, how _dare_ he talk of Parvon in such a way? That was not acceptable, it was… was wrong, and… and… Well, Parvon would soon tell him, send him on his way with a scathing rebuff ringing in his ears…

Wouldn’t he? 

And, and why did it matter, suddenly, what Parvon said to Thindo…?

‘Commander Triwathon, just the person I was hoping to see…!’

His train of thought broken, Triwathon snapped his head round to see Master Merenor a little distance away.

‘Me…?’

‘Indeed, although I see you’re not, strictly speaking, in uniform…’ 

What? Triwathon saw Merenor gesturing, heard the words but they made no sense in his head; all that mattered was Thindo talking to Parvon and it really, really bothered him and he didn’t know why…

‘…but that’s fine, it is not a garrison matter…’

Triwathon shook his head. Now was not the time, he needed to get away from people, needed to think…

He made some sort of warding off gesture and turned on his heel to march towards his garrison office. Merenor, undaunted, followed.

‘…just a quick question, I can see you’ve things on your mind…’

‘I am sorry, I have matters of urgency…’

‘It is but a moment I need and can talk as you walk if I must…’

Triwathon heaved a sigh and stopped; he was really being very rude to one of the kindest elves in the New Palace and it wasn’t fair…

Although didn’t feel like being fair, not right now…

‘Come to my office,’ he said.

‘I am grateful,’ Merenor said as they reached Triwathon’s door and the commander opened it to permit him to enter. ‘As I say, it will not take long; it is simply that… oh, dear me, you have been busy…!’ 

Ah. Triwathon had forgotten the state of his desk, strewn with discarded beginnings of letters. But Merenor behaved as if the crumpled carnage all around was perfectly normal as he took a seat, giving Triwathon time to recover some of his composure.

‘What can I do for you, Master Merenor?’

‘It is but that I happened to walk into the Palace Office to find my dear grandson on his knees under the desk in a manner not at all befitting the Elf-in-Temporary-Charge of the Palace Office, searching for a letter he believes is missing. Now, strictly speaking I ought not be here, I should…’

Triwathon tuned out again distracted by all the false starts of his attempt to write to Parvon.

‘…so, you see, he thinks he has lost your letter to Parvon… Or did you ask your friend Thindorion the Dyer to take it for you…? I wish Faerveren had known, he is in such a tizzy, poor fellow!’

‘There… there is no letter for Parvon this time, I have been busy…’ Triwathon managed, stunned at the _wrongness_ of asking his last-night’s lover to take a message to his dearest friend who had inappropriate feelings for him. ‘I… if Faerveren was anxious, I am sorry, Merenor.’

‘No letter? Are you sure? That is, it looks to me as if there are several letters here, all in different stages of completion …’

‘Merenor, this is…’ He swallowed down the words ‘none of your business’ and found some better ones. ‘…kind of you. But you are right, I have not been able to find…’ _the words_ ‘…the time to write to Parvon.’

Merenor nodded. The commander looked tired, and sad, and, given the friendly hugs he’d witnessed being exchanged, perhaps parting from his friend might account for that. But long years of experience in charge of Matters Matrimonial at the Old Palace made him wary of jumping to the easiest conclusion; there was more to Triwathon’s tragic eyes than just saying farewell to the handsome dyer… perhaps a different approach would help…

‘Of course, you have been busy with your friend here, and leading target practice and staying up all night talking, no doubt… I like that Thindorion, you know. Nice, respectable elf, does some lovely things with colours… clever hands, but I suspect you might know more about that than me, no, don’t bridle up there, penneth, I was trying to ease the tension, make you smile… He’s sailing, they say.’

‘Yes. That’s so. I’ve known him since my early days in the guard, but we’d lost touch.’

‘It must be hard, not seeing him for so long, and then here he is, and now he’s gone again…?’

‘Strange, but when he arrived, it was as if we’d met only a few days previously…’

‘Ah, there are elves like that, you just fall back into company with them as easy as comfortable shoes at the end of the day! You’ll miss him, of course?’

‘I will, a little. But he is not as important to me as… oh, that sounds terrible, after last night, and… but it is just friendship between us, and…’

‘Then what’s hurting your fëa so, penneth?’ Merenor asked in his most avuncular manner. ‘Come, we have known each other for many years, there’s something amiss, you’ll feel better for telling me, yes?’

‘It is… Oh, I do not know! It is true, I have been busy, but I should not ever be too busy for Parvon, he has been such a good friend to me, but…’

‘Well, I happen to know there’s a few families joining the convoy at the next village east; it’s bound to cause a delay, at least an hour, I would think. Now, I could ask my Canadion to dash through the canopy and he’d be there before the wagons arrive, I bet, and even with the time it takes to write a little note, he could get there easily; you’ve got twenty minutes, an hour, even…’

Triwathon shook his head.

‘Twenty minutes isn’t enough. An hour isn’t enough. A week isn’t enough, Master Merenor, a month wouldn’t be, not after… I cannot write anything that does not have Thindorion in and it would be unkind to Parvon, he would be… I am embarrassed, perhaps, I… I cannot… I do not know if you are aware, but… but Parvon believes he has feelings for me and…’

‘Lad,’ Merenor said quietly. ‘Half the forest knows Parvon has feelings for you. And he’s away from his home and missing the people he cares about… I know what that’s like. Just a few words…’

‘No, no, I am too ashamed, last night, I was… with… well, that is why I had no time, and I can’t explain to Parvon, he’d be…’ _hurt. Angry. Disappointed._ ‘…disapproving, and something Thindo said, as he was leaving, _just because you can turn your face away from your fëa-mate_ and I don’t know what he _meant_ , Merenor, because he isn’t mine and the only other it could be is Parvon but I haven’t, I just don’t understand…’

‘Well, sometimes it can happen that one will find his fëa-mate and for whatever reason, will not allow himself to see it; the connection begins, the fëa reaches out, but cannot connect because the elf turns away.’

‘But that wasn’t me! That was him!’

Merenor lifted an eyebrow; now he didn’t understand... ‘In what way, Triwathon?’

‘Parvon. He told me, he… he saw me, when I was so young and stupid, and that was it for him, but he didn’t want it to be me… so it isn’t my fault, is it? And only later, when I had grown up a little, when I had met my Balrog-slayer, only then did he look again…Oh, Parvon cannot be my fëa-mate, surely?’

‘Well, from all I’ve seen from my work and from my own observations, it is usually a reciprocal…’

‘But, he can’t be, I couldn’t, he… I am not his fëa-mate!!’

‘That’s still no reason not to write to him is it? Anyway, I can’t see Parvon being… annoyed with you, just because you found some companionship from an old, old friend. He’d forgive you, I’m sure; he really does love you.’

‘But I do not _want_ him to forgive me! I want… I want to not feel as if I need him to, and…’

Merenor shook his head. ‘Are you sure you don’t love him?’

‘Merenor! I didn’t say I didn’t love him; I said I’m not his fëa-mate!’

‘Well, I’m glad we cleared that up!’ Merenor said. ‘No need to be distressed… but is there no chance of a few words from you? After all, who’s to tell him about you and Thindo? I don’t think any of the convoy escort will have chance to speak to Parvon, and none of the passengers will know about it.’

‘Parvon will know. He always knows when I… when things happen to me. That’s why I feel so ashamed and…’

‘You know what he’s like, though; he won’t mention it if you don’t. Now, you’ve time to get something down on paper still, lad, and if you bring it to me I’ll take it to Canadion. Now, I’ll go and reassure Faerveren that he hasn’t lost anything except his dignity, crawling around on the floor like that, dear boy that he is!’

And with a smile, Merenor rose and left Triwathon wondering where all these new and uncomfortable thoughts and sensations had come from, and to try to work out exactly what had changed for him that morning and what he was going to do with about it.


	67. An Unexpected Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon is interrupted in his rooms...

His desk!

All Parvon’s discomfort fell away and he hastily removed the fabrics into the corridor where he let the fall with little care, returning to ease the desk out, struggling a little with the turn, but soon it was back in place.

And so was he.

Stealing a pillowcase from one of the many piles of linen, he wiped down the desk’s surfaces, taking away the top layer of dust and revealing the soft wood beneath; yes, it needed a little affection, some oiling and rubbing, but it would be wonderful with some care. Meanwhile he could at least make sure it was in good order; yes, the drawers opened (although there was nothing inside them), the writing slope was properly supported, everything moved reasonably smoothly and he nodded satisfaction as he closed it up and gave it a final stroke with the cloth.

That done, he appropriated a couple of blankets from the bundles, spread one on the floor in the sleeping alcove, folded the other for his head, and brought his lantern through to the alcove’s recess before lying down to watch his star-ceiling while he rested.

As he relaxed, the hard work and the sense of putting things to rights transferred to his mood; yes, he would be unreasonably distressed to learn that Triwathon was in love with someone else… again… and he would adapt again; it was typical of Triwathon; he was sensitive and caring, perhaps too much so, leading to occasionally unwise choices made from an affectionate nature… but then, what proof did Parvon have that there really was someone, in fact? It was just a feeling, an intuition, a dream… and, coupled with the lack of any obvious contender, perhaps he was being over-sensitive, simply because he was sometimes lonely… No, the convoy would be here in a day or two, bringing with it news and another letter from Triwathon – no doubt, if there was a new sweetheart, Triw would not be shy of sharing his happiness, and it would be better to know, would it not…?

Even so, Parvon found his determined positivity wavering a little; there was still a nagging sense of something about Triwathon’s mood which kept prickling at his fëa… and then when the letter arrived, it might contain upsetting details… and with a sigh he realised another difficulty he must face; if his forebodings were real, then he no longer had anywhere that was not touched with thoughts of Triw with someone else… the New Palace would be as tainted for him now as the Old Palace was… at least here in his old rooms Parvon did not have to think, Triwathon walked past here with Glorfindel on the way to his rooms, his bed…

Perhaps fortuitously the door clicked as someone outside tried to open it but failed – his key still in the inner lock – and muffled voices exclaiming. Parvon rose in haste from his makeshift bed and slipped on his robes-of office; he had given no thought to passers-by or corridor servants, and so interruption had not occurred to him. 

…But these were his rooms, his! The only place now where he had a chance of peace; he was not giving them up again!

He put his King’s Office expression on his face and unlocked the door. A little bevy of ellith clad in servants’ garb gasped in harmony.

‘Ah, good,’ he said, thinking on his feet. ‘You are tardy, but no matter: I have begun the work myself. To begin, you may take all these things and dispose of them appropriately, and then…’

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘Who am I?’ Parvon echoed. ‘Do you not know?’

Several ellith shook their heads; the one who seemed to be in charge drew herself up a little.

‘Ought I to? I will need to speak to your superior about this, who are you?’

‘Indeed? Know, then, that I am Parvon, King’s Office, Elf in Charge of the Division of Matters Transitional. The only superior I have is the king himself; his next public audience is in three days, do feel free to approach him then. Meanwhile, these rooms are required; I had thought you were the team come to clear away all this clutter. Now, as you see, much has been taken out already…’

‘But these are our rooms! They are for storage of these fabrics…’

‘There must be a misunderstanding; I am sure we can sort this out once I have seen the paperwork… you do have the paperwork?’

‘P…Paperwork?’

He gave a sigh that was slightly exasperated while feel rather ashamed of himself.

‘All rooms repurposed are logged with the King’s Office and a copy of the documentation left with the new inhabitants. The document will show for how long the rooms were intended to be at your disposal.’

‘There is no paperwork, sir; we just said, is there a room where we can put the spare linens until the cold comes, and someone said, oh there are rooms in that corridor nobody wants…’ She shrugged. ‘I am very sorry if I have made problems for his majesty, of course I will not take up his time, but…’

Parvon allowed his manner to soften; she did seem very contrite.

‘It is more the King’s Office, rather than the king himself, penneth. But in fact, all that is needed is for you to arrange to move these things elsewhere. Master Baudh, with whom I work closely, will assist you, if you go to him tomorrow…’

‘Tomorrow! But… but where…?’

‘Perhaps there are other rooms in the next corridor which are unrequired and which you can temporarily use? Let me relieve you of the key for this door, it will only confuse matters if you have a key for a room you no longer access… there, I thank you.’ Parvon bowed. ‘Good day to you.’

He shut himself inside to tidy up and to collect his lantern before leaving and locking the door. He nodded to one or two of the ellith who were trying to sort some of the confusion in the corridor, and made his way back towards his old rooms.

*

The telling-of-hours lamp at the junction of the passages showed, to his surprise, that it was long past the breakfast hour; he had hoped to find Baudh at home, still, to let him know about the room, and the ellith, but he would be long gone now, already at work about the next set of accommodation for the refugees, or in his workroom…

Ah, well. Parvon hoped he had given himself a little breathing space by saying ‘tomorrow’ to the ellith.

Having yet several hours before he was expected in his workspace, he took time to pack up the rest of his things ready to carry them back to his former rooms. Although he did not hurry, he was soon finished, and delayed setting out again, concerned lest he get there and find the elleth still working to move the abundance of linens in the corridor…

It was awkward. He wanted to be busy but he could not be, and so found it more difficult to blot out the sense of impending heartbreak he could feel waiting to descend if he but let it. He repeated to himself the positive thoughts he had used earlier; nothing was certain, he was simply imagining it, because he was lonely and missed his friend, naturally he was worrying, there would be a letter which would explain all, or would say nothing which, in its own right, would tell him all he needed to know, but at least he would know…

But it was difficult to hold onto the hope, and so the knock that came to his door was a welcome distraction.

‘Master Baudh!’

‘Please, Parvon, in the office you can be as formal as you like but I’ve come in friendship… and bringing food.’

Food?

Parvon didn’t realise he’d spoken aloud until Baudh laughed and waved a basket at him.

‘Yes, food, such as breakfast? You weren’t in the feasting hall, and even though Melion said you should take the morning and to leave you in peace, I decided to ignore him…’

Parvon shook his head.

‘Forgive me, I am distracted today. Thank you, Baudh. Come in.’

‘Melion was worried,’ Baudh began as he unloaded his basket onto the table. ‘He won’t admit it, but I know he’s anxious we were too rowdy for you last night, and when he knocked on your door this morning and had no reply…’

‘Ah. No, it’s true I’m not much in company, but, really, Gilrin was very welcoming and everyone so friendly… and… but…’

‘Will it help if I say that, on my travels this morning, I ran into a little knot of twittering ellith with their arms full of dusty bedding…?’

Parvon flushed, looked down. Baudh grinned, shaking his head.

‘Oh-ho! So it is to do with that? And it cannot be coincidence they were near your former quarters, I suppose…?’

‘Baudh, I am sorry if…’ 

‘There is no need, my friend, to apologise. Believe me, I was quite entertained by the sight, that’s all, there is nothing wrong; in fact, the whole tale is that they had once been given permission to find a room for the winter bedding, just until the cold weather, when it was needed, and, well, it hasn’t been needed. Instead, it was forgotten about and only now remembered when it was almost stumbled over. I’ve found them a nice, big store room with shelves already in place, in one of the branches on the lower levels. I even made sure there is paperwork…’

Here Baudh paused to wink, while Parvon sighed and shook his head.

‘Really, Baudh, I… Does Melion know yet?’

‘It wouldn’t matter if he did, I’m the Rooms Elf… and he has said, you don’t take orders from him, so there’s nothing to be upset over! Besides which, you have done him and Gil and everyone a huge favour by getting Ravomen out of the way… Parvon, my friend, I know you don’t laugh at the same things we do, but you do have a sense of humour, but this is not amusing you, it’s upsetting you and it shouldn’t… what’s the matter?’

‘It’s kind of you, Baudh, but it’s nothing you need worry about.’

‘Or, it’s none of my business! But very politely put, Parvon! No, I don’t want to pry; I just want to help.’

‘Other than turning a blind eye while I move back into my former rooms, there’s nothing you can help with.’

‘Please don’t do that,’ Baudh said softly. ‘Not, don’t block me out – you’re a private sort of person, I understand that, and I might not be your first choice of confidant. But if you move out of here, it will make Melion think it’s his fault, or the family is too boisterous, or something like it. It would hurt his feelings, and…’

Parvon tried hard not to sigh; was he not allowed to have feelings, also? Instead, he tried an appeal that was near the truth if not quite what was on his mind.

‘You love your brothers, do you not?’ he began.

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Consider, then. You have three siblings; I had one brother. He was my dearest friend, and he is dead.’

‘Parvon, I can’t imagine…’

‘No, it is best you do not try, it will break your heart to think of your brother Canadion, dead, or Melion, or Caraphindir no more... After my brother’s death, my parents sailed to be there when he is released from the Halls of Waiting, not thinking that I would feel their leaving as another loss. I have no kin here, now. Rejoice in them, Baudh, in your family! But… bear in mind, that for those who have no-one, your sibling friendships are sometimes a painful reminder… and there are too many memories of this corridor, of elves who have walked along them on their way to one set of rooms or another.’

‘I’d no idea. That is, I knew you didn’t have much kin in evidence, but that happens sometimes. And you’re always so self-composed…’

‘It is true, I am not a sentimental, over-emotional sort of ellon; it is no wonder if it escapes notice in other people when I am out of sorts… but rooms as spacious as these are too big for one person and remind me that I am alone. My former chambers fitted me very well in former days, and when I visited them last night I was less uncomfortable in my mind there. It is not Melion, it is not your rambunctious relations, it is not you, Baudh. It is me, I do not fit these chambers.’

‘It’s a guess, but you don’t feel as if you fit anywhere, at times, do you? But we’re very glad you’re here, Parvon, the king’s glad you’re back, I know…’

‘And so his majesty should be; it was he engineered my removal here, after all.’

‘You still haven’t eaten anything.’ Baudh unwrapped packs of food and slid them towards Parvon. ‘Come on, I know Gil stuffed you full of food last night, but looking at the amount of work you seem to have already done this morning, you really need to break your fast.’ He sighed. ‘Keep these chambers on, use them now and then, please? Let me know what you need for your new – old – rooms and I’ll make it available to you for when it gets too much. There’s no washing cascade, although I could investigate fitting one in the adjacent rooms… it wouldn’t be ideal, but better than walking through the corridors to a public bathing pool…’

‘Really, there’s no need, Baudh; I want the simplicity.’

‘I just want to make things easy for you, Parvon; and isn’t the easy answer often the simplest?’

Parvon didn’t answer, but spread a piece of bread with butter and cut it into small cubes before beginning to eat.

‘I’ll take that as agreement, then,’ Baudh said. ‘One of the rooms opposite might be best; they’re nearer to the current pipework and they’re not in use by anyone or anything… and you can let me know what you need when you’ve had time to think…’

‘A small sofa, one soft chair, one writing chair, a narrow cot – the sort that used to be garrison issue; any wider will not fit the sleeping alcove. Bedding, I suppose. A coffer or chest, some more lanterns, a small rug, perhaps. That’s all I need. Oh, and some rubbing oil.’

‘Parvon!’ Baudh grinned. ‘I’m surprised at you!’

A withering look but now Parvon had to struggle not to smile; it was impossible not to feel he had made an ally, if not a friend, in Baudh. 

‘It is for my desk,’ he replied. ‘And if you can source that for me right away, I will allow you to bring it to my old rooms. Once I have finished eating, the care of my desk will be my next task. And if you hasten, you may even help me.’


	68. Cordial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Master Melion brings something to Master Parvon's attention...

It was a fact, Parvon noted, that when he was busy – as when Baudh worked with him on his desk – the time sped, but the desk had soon been rejuvenated, Baudh had promised to find exactly the right chair to go with it, and there was still time to fill before Parvon started work, then everything slowed to dragging solitude.

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of Baudh’s expressed intention of tearing into the walls of a room opposite to begin work on a decent hygiene room with washing cascade and somewhere to dry off and dress in comfort so that Parvon was spared the indignity of wandering around swathed in towels. (‘Although if anyone has the air to carry it off, you do,’ Baudh had said with a grin as Parvon shook his head in disapproving fashion.) but his mind would keep wandering, and so, perhaps a little early, he headed for the King’s Office to fill the hours with official duties.

Melion was not visibly present when Parvon got to his workroom, for which he was obscurely relieved.; it was tiring, being in company, having to appear to be his usual, calmly formal, self. Best to keep busy, of course, for then his mind could not wander to the New Palace and wonder about Triwathon…

Setting to work, Parvon looked over lists and made plans for those taking the journey to the ship, and drafted a very formal and polite letter in which he petitioned his majesty to permit the use of one of the narrow carts, just for the conveyance of tents, bedrolls and hard rations. There would be game to shoot on the way and plenty of water sources, but there was always the opportunity for mischance and a narrow wagon would make the journey simpler, while not making it much easier for the individuals making the journey. 

*

So carefully worded had his suggestions been that next morning, Parvon was the recipient of a note which granted general permission, on condition that the cart was simply for supplies provided by the kingdom, and not mentioned to the travellers lest it make them overburden themselves. It was at least a minor triumph, although Parvon did wonder what Master Ravomen and Mistress Cullasbes would make of the king’s proviso; sadly, he could not ask Master Ravomen, for the elf had already left the Old Palace, to Melion’s quiet, angry delight and Baudh’s more light-hearted cheer.

‘What are your plans for the day, Master Parvon?’ Melion asked once the king’s permission had been adequately discussed. ‘Baudh tells me you have something arranged with him… if I may, you are spending a lot of time together, I did mention to Baudh that I hoped Master Oldor does not object, and equally I hope you are content with the situation?’ This was said with a smile to show Melion was in jest, just in case Parvon was under the impression that Melion really thought he might have been flirting with his brother. Parvon did not appreciate the joke, especially while he was still trying to come to terms with his worry about Triwathon. and was privately quite offended.

‘Indeed, Baudh has been most helpful.’ Not knowing exactly how much Melion knew, or suspected, of the clandestine building works taking place on his behalf, Parvon did not elaborate on how the time with Baudh had been spent. ‘We have a tour of the next set of rooms planned for the next group of arriving elves this morning the convoy is due some time on the morrow… and I must arrange a meeting with all the elves who wish to sail for this evening…’

‘All at once? Where will you put them all? It is very brave of you!’

‘I thought it best they see with whom they will be making the journey. I intend to reserve some of the lesser tables in the Feasting Hall for second serving this evening.’

‘Let me bespeak the tables for you… although, I wonder if my mother will be happy, if it is not the top range of tables?’

‘Ah. Well, Mistress Cullasbes has already declined her inviation, saying her…’ Parvon managed not to utter the word ‘husband’ ‘…arrangements are being made separately and she does not expect to actually travel with the rest.’

‘Really? Well, my mother can be good company when she chooses, and has organisational skills, of course. But there remains the vexed question of who will accompany the convoy; that is to say, of course I would not really object to the journey myself now, but it would put much on your shoulders, Parvon, and on Baudh’s, if I am absent for so long, and yet Baudh is too light of manner to be entrusted… perhaps if my father were to return, he might go, although, if my mother were to decide to join the ranks, it might be unwise... it is unfortunate we have so few underscribes and scribes at present, but…’

Parvon’s attention drifted. Really, Melion was quite transparent, it was obvious he wanted to avoid the trip at all costs while being far too polite to say outright that he wanted Parvon to go… more to the point, having stated already he did not consider himself Parvon’s superior, he could not order him to, and so now he was trying, it seemed, to steer Parvon towards volunteering himself. At the next pause, judging it to be the moment to say something, Parvon nodded.

‘I quite see the difficulty, of course. But does there really need to be a representative from the King’s Office? Surely someone amongst those sailing could be entrusted to keep whatever records are required, and send them back with the next courier from Ithilien? The dyer Thindorion is going to sail, he is a respectable elf and quite capable of keeping records, I am sure.’

‘Ah. Well, perhaps so, but his majesty has said it is his express wish…’

Both elves sighed at the vagaries of kings. ‘Well, we have had a victory over a supply wagon,’ Parvon said. ‘Perhaps we will be able to bring him to see that asking one of the convoy would be much better…’ 

‘Or whomever drives the wagon, of course,’ Melion answered. ‘And that is another thing, I do not know whom can be entrusted with the care of my Ada’s precious donkeys…’

Parvon decided this was a complication he could not offer advice with.

‘Well, I am almost late, Master Melion, and so will see you presently. If anyone wants me, I am inspecting the next set of lodgings for the forthcoming arrivals in corridor South Seven.’

*

It was not that Parvon did not want to help, of course, he told himself firmly as guilt threatened to disturb his already uneven tranquillity. It was more that, really, Parvon had plenty to do already with the constant supply of elves to resettle, without considering a journey of several months, one that would take him even further away from Tr… from the New Palace…

‘Are you well, Master Parvon?’ Baudh asked when Parvon arrived. ‘You look a little… well, how I look when Melion’s lectured me, I do hope my brother hasn’t forgotten you’re not a Merenorion, too…?’

Parvon was able to smile as he shook his head. ‘I am well, my thanks. It is simply… logistics.’

‘Talking of which, I asked Oldor to join us, that’s all right, I hope?’ 

‘Yes, most certainly. But I fail to see…?’

‘He’s just in the first set of rooms, here. You see, I know how busy you are, and how shorthanded we are in the King’s Office, and Master Oldor, being quite newly arrived, is at a loose end and I thought, and he thought, if you thought it was a good idea, you could perhaps…’ Baudh opened a door with a flourish and almost pushed Parvon through it, where a somewhat startled Oldor bowed hastily to him… 

‘…mentiontoMelionyouneedanassistantandyouknewOldorattheNewPalaceand…’

‘If it is something Master Oldor would like, then I am sure we can discuss the matter,’ Parvon said calmly. ‘Besides, it will be nice for you to have your good friend working with you, I am sure Master Melion will agree.’

‘Are you?’ Baudh asked, startled. ‘Because it would be wonderful if so! He’s always saying we need to consider the serious nature of our work, how we represent the king, and he doesn’t want me flirting all the time…’

‘So having your special friend close at hand would certainly preclude that!’ Parvon said, causing Oldor to smile. ‘But Oldor, what do you think?’

‘I think I could help you, Master Parvon, especially with newly arrived elves; I’m new myself, in that sense, and would be able to reassure and assist with any worries they may have. As for working with Baudh, it would be nice, but I wouldn’t expect to work alongside of him… And filing, I understand there is always filing…?’

Parvon nodded. ‘It’s a constant,’ he said. ‘Well, let us see these rooms, then! Baudh, you have the list of who needs what? Who is this suite for…?’

*

Returning to his workroom after the tour had been completed, and leaving Oldor with a suggestion that he join Parvon at the tables that night to talk to the elves who would sail, Parvon paused to knock lightly on Melion’s partially-open door.

‘I am glad to have caught you,’ he began. ‘I wanted to let you know that, as I’ve duty this evening, I will not be in my workroom again today.’

‘Oh? Well, of course, you have been working hard over the last few days, outside of your office, much of the time, I have noticed; in fact, there have been persons come with enquiries and nobody but I or the Matrimonial ellith to help, and it is really not appropriate…’

‘Indeed. As to that, I’ve had a thought; it is getting to the point where I am sometimes so busy that I need help, and of course, it is not fair to ask Baudh all the time, for he has his own work, and it seems to have given rise to unpleasant talk already. So I have suggested that Master Oldor act as my assistant here and, if he likes the work, he could join us as an underscribe and help with enquirers; it would solve several problems, not least the fact that people appear to think Baudh and I spend more time together than is fitting. To that end, Oldor is helping me this evening at the Sailing Table…’

‘Do you not know why there are so few underscribes at present?’ Melion had listened to Parvon’s announcement with increasing surprise and took the first opportunity to interrupt his flow. Parvon was not distracted.

‘No, I do not, and I must admit it seemed to me very odd when I first arrived back…! People sailing is an obvious opportunity for attrition, and there is the lure of the Ithilien Project. However, Master Oldor is quite happy to start as my general helper, learning by observation as did I… is there a problem, Master Melion?’

‘Well, as you know, he and Baudh…’ 

‘This is why it is such a good idea, Oldor can see for himself there is nothing for him to worry about, that it is only work that puts your brother and I so much together, and Baud is less likely to flirt with anyone if Oldor is just a door or so away.’ Parvon paused for emphasis. ‘I took your words to heart, you see.’

‘You really did, did you not?’ Melion murmured, and Parvon inclined his head. 

‘Well, when the Scribe-in Charge of the King’s Office makes accusations concerning one’s reputation, one must pay attention, do you not think?’

With that he turned away, dismissing himself from Melion’s presence with a tight, formal smile.

*  
Intending to head straight out for the comfort of his little room with its gemstone skyscape, he found his way blocked by both Mistress Merlinith and Mistress Araspen.

‘Oh, my dear Master Parvon!’ Araspen began in her soft voice. ‘One could not help but hear…’

‘And really, Master Parvon,’ Merlinith said, ‘we heard what Master Melion said earlier today, of course, about you and Master Baudh, but did you not think he might have been in jest?’

Melion’s door was still open; no doubt he could hear all that was passing… it was too perfect an opportunity for Parvon to vent his hurt feelings…

‘In fact, I did not; it would have been entirely inappropriate for Master Melion to attempt to joke on such a topic with me, of all people! Respect for his brother aside, he would not dream of taking my reputation so lightly, surely?’

‘Oh…’ Araspen looked anxiously towards the open door. ‘Do you not think you might benefit from a glass of restorative cordial?’ she suggested. ‘You have been looking rather out of sorts of late, Master Parvon, and you were so kind to think we might be of use in Matters Matrimonial, it saddens us to see you so!’

‘But I have a meeting…’

‘I’m sure it can wait,’ Merlinith said, taking his arm in friendly fashion and pulling him towards their workroom. ‘You just come with us…’

Bewildered, Parvon allowed himself to be seated in a comfortable chair and accepted a glass of dark red liquid from Araspen. 

‘I am grateful… but what is this?’

‘Restorative blackcurrant cordial. It is very good.’

‘I…’ Parvon sipped. ‘Mistress Araspen! Is it alcoholic?’

‘It is made from fruit, so it is healthful, and good for you,’ Merlinith said sternly.

Parvon sipped. The cordial was, in fact, rather good.

‘Ladies, it is most kind of you to wish to assist me; I am quite restored now and…’

But even as Parvon set down the cordial, Araspen closed the door. 

‘Was there something I might help you with?’ he ventured as the two ellith came to sit close to him. Merlinith began, her tones low.

‘Now, you know I am not a gossip, Master Parvon,’ she began, ‘but sometimes one hears things and it is for the good of everyone if those things overheard are repeated to the appropriate elf, do you not agree?’

‘Ah. It is an interesting point, Mistress Merlinith…’

‘Have some more of your cordial, Master Parvon,’ Araspen suggested, handing it to him.

‘And so,’ Merlinith carried on, ‘we were in the position of overhearing a conversation between Master Melion and Master Baudh. Melion said, did Baudh think a trip would benefit your health, and Baudh said yes, a visit to the New Palace would do you a power of good, and Melion said, no, the king would not hear of it, but he might agree to a trip to Ithilien for you… and Baudh said that was silly, you wouldn’t want to go so far…’

‘Then Master Melion said, well, something would have to happen or people would start to wonder at how much time Baudh and you, Master Parvon, were in company… and Baudh began trying to explain, but Melion went on that he’d looked for you, Master Parvon, and looked for Baudh, and you were both missing together, or at least, at the same time…’ Araspen added.

‘…and so when we heard your discussion with Master Melion, well, we could not help but think perhaps you might wish to have a reply ready should Master Melion ask if you want a trip for your health…’

‘I see. In which case, I am grateful to you for your explanation. I think it stems simply from Master Melion’s excessively friendly nature, which means he is treating me like one of the family… it is gratifying to think he is so concerned for my health and reputation, in fact.’

Merlinith drew in a gasp of a breath at this, but saw something in Parvon’s face that told her not to press it. In fact, while it was not Parvon’s wish to thwart the present Elf-in-Charge of the King’s Office, he was still smarting from Melion’s attempted joke – and now that joke seemed almost a veiled accusation; nor was he pleased to have proof that he was being manoeuvred towards going to offer to go to Ithilien.

‘In fact, were I to be invited to make such a trip, I expect I would decline. Please do not think badly of Master Melion…’

‘No, it is just he is more like his Naneth than any of his brothers.’

‘Well, I am grateful for your kindness.’ Parvon sipped at his glass again. ‘And for the cordial. I will bear your information, and your friendship, in mind. But I do have somewhere to be, if you will excuse me.’

‘Of course, Master Parvon. Just so you know, you can always come to us if you’re feeling like a bit of company. We don’t have hordes of children or grandchildren running around, either.’

‘Again, I am grateful.’ Parvon smiled as Merlinith opened the door for him. ‘As long as you do not wish to teach me to crochet, I believe I might take you up on your kind offer one evening. Good day to you.’


	69. Interruption to an Evening Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon's evening with the elves planning on sailing is interrupted...

After a few hours spent in the solitude of his small room, alternatively working at the newly-restored desk and reclining in the sleeping alcove watching the twinkle of the lamplit skystones, Parvon’s mood began to settle again. Of course he was on edge; anxious about Triwathon, he could not help himself, he was just tied to the elf for good or ill – and awaiting word, dreading and hoping for the letter which would explain it all… well, he could not hasten its arrival, all he could do was try to be patient for a little while longer; by this time tomorrow, the mail satchel would be in the hands of Master Melion…

Parvon ran through his recent interactions with the Chief Elf of the King’s Office once more and was a little ashamed of himself; Melion had tried hard to be friendly and welcoming, and perhaps by inveigling Master Oldor into the King’s Office, Parvon was rather sidestepping his authority a little… he had no wish to create an awkward working environment for himself, but…

But somehow, in spite of Melion’s welcoming friendship, despite protestations of equality, Parvon had not been able to shake the feeling that he had put up with indignity and implied inferiority, the jesting slur on his good character, and the quiet plans to send him to Ithilien under pretence of his health… no, he had to make a stand or he would forever be smarting under Melion’s friendly superiority. 

Let Melion try to outflank him! He may have been in charge of the King’s Office for two decades, but Parvon had run the whole thing for much longer in his day, and had learned his statecraft from a master; Melion, as nice as he was, should he choose to cross administrative swords with Parvon, would never know what hit him. 

He had returned to his desk and was part-way through working out the timings of the journey to the ship when a sudden banging somewhere outside broke into his concentration. Rising, he went out, fairly sure he knew where the sound was coming from and, indeed, a drift of dust from the rooms opposite hung in the air and the banging continued, now accompanied by a pleasantly melodic voice singing a random song on the pleasures of beer.

‘Master Baudh, I have no beer, I am afraid, but I do have a jug of water if the dust bothers you,’ he called, interrupting the song, and the banging. Presently Baudh, covered in dirt, appeared in the doorway, grinning.

‘Master Parvon! We must stop meeting like this!’ 

‘Indeed we must, for your brother is far too easily shocked.’

‘I disturbed you, I am sorry. But I did not think you would be here at this hour…’

‘Nor am I; in fact, I was just collecting something on my way back to my formal lodgings. Please tell Master Oldor that I expect him in the Feasting Hall shortly before second serving, if that is convenient for him.’

‘Gladly, Master Parvon! I perhaps won’t join you myself, since it’s not my department, but I’ll be in the Feasting Hall if you should find you need another elf to handle the questions.’

‘Thank you; I will bear that in mind.’

Of course Parvon did not envisage the need for any support, and he had requested Oldor’s presence more to give the ellon a glimpse of the nature of the varied work of the King’s Office… and to make it more difficult for Master Melion to block Oldor’s appointment, since if he had been seen to represent the King’s Office by a large body of elves – in this case, those planning on sailing – Oldor wold already be established in his role, albeit to a small degree... It was, perhaps, a little more devious that Parvon wished to be in his dealings, but sometimes when there was a potential problem, it was wise to cover as many aspects as possible before the need really arose…

*

Later, Parvon waited in the shadows of the Feasting Hal for Oldor to arrive. When he did – a few minutes early, which boded well – Parvon made his way round the corridors to appear to arrive himself, and greeted his new apprentice.

‘Master Oldor, good evening.’

‘Master Parvon. I don’t have any formal robes, I hope this is all right, Baudh said, just nothing gaudy…’

Parvon gave an appraising glance. Dark leggings, sombre tunic, neatly braided hair, even if it was retained by several of Master Baudh’s braid clasps…

‘Indeed, you are far from gaudy. I will make arrangements for proper robes of office for you tomorrow, but for the present, you are most suitably attired. Now, this evening, we gather mostly so that everyone who will be journeying together can be introduced; many will already be known to each other, some may not. But there are basic facts we can tell them, and these I have written down for you here…’ He passed Oldor a small folded piece of parchment. ‘Journey times, order of going, possible leaving dates – although I await confirmation from Ithilien for that – and I will talk about these things during the meal. I do not expect much conflict, not at the dinner table, at least.’

Nor was there, at least, not from the invited guests. There was a minor outburst when Parvon mentioned the length of time he expected the trip to take – ‘ _How_ long, Master Parvon?’ one elleth asked. ‘I am bringing my youngsters with me, it is a long time for small elflings…’

‘In fact, it is partly because there are a number of small elflings travelling that the journey time will be so long!’ Parvon said, giving his formal smile. ‘But it is a fair point, and perhaps needs further explanation.’ He rose from his seat to address the whole table in louder, carrying tones. ‘For those of you beyond conversational hearing, the matter under discussion is the timescale of the journey to Ithilien. Let it be known, then, that there is no real need for you to be part of the convoy; if you wish to make your own arrangements, and are willing to go so far without the benefit of an armed escort, well, times have changed, and the forest is less dangerous than formerly. Simply decide within the next few days and let me know as soon as possible, that I may adjust arrangements accordingly. For a few may travel more swiftly than many, if there is a perceived need for haste. Furthermore, the potential sailing dates are really quite soon, so to facilitate your leaving, it is advisable that you make a start on your preparations as soon as you might.’ 

With that, Parvon inclined his head towards the far end of the table, sat down, and addressed himself to his meal once more.

‘What were those numbers again?’ someone at the far end of the table asked. Oldor rose from his seat.

‘I believe I have the figures,’ he said. ‘One moment…’

Parvon caught Oldor’s eye and nodded approval, earning a smile in response. He had just reached for the water jug when a voice from behind stayed his hand.

‘All seems to be going admirably, Master Parvon.’

‘Master Melion, indeed, we have had a very pleasant dinner and it has been rewarding to bring everyone together in this setting.’

‘Have you a moment? I looked for you earlier, but really, Master Parvon,’ Melion paused to give a little laugh, ‘you are never where you are supposed to be, these days!’

Parvon drew in a steadying breath, glad Melion could not see his face from this angle. He bit down a hasty reply as he rose and delivered a more considered answer than to demand what made Melion think he had any right to say that…

‘In fact, I am generally where I am supposed to be, it is simply that suppositions made by other people do not match with my own perceptions of where that is.’ A tight smile and he walked a little way from the table, gesturing for Melion to accompany him. ‘If I am not in my workroom during my desk hours, I leave word; even so, I am usually to be found at the Healer Hall, if there are elves due from the New Palace, or inspecting their planned accommodations. Or assisting with the King’s Audience…’

‘But you were not in your rooms when I looked for you earlier, Master Parvon.’

‘This is true. I was not aware, however, that I needed to report my whereabouts at every moment, Master Melion; we are no longer on a war footing, or under emergency circumstances. For that matter, I have no idea where you spend your time, other than outside my door, knocking upon it, it seems…’

‘Aha, ha. Most amusing, Master Parvon! But while we are understaffed, it is important, do you not think?’

‘Is not it fortunate, then, that Master Oldor is so willing to join the King’s Office, and thus take off some of the strain on us? Oh, and now, if you will excuse me, I am looked for.’

Over at the table, an ellon was talking with Oldor, both of them looking round as if seeking him. Parvon lifted a hand to draw their attention while Melion continued.

‘We need to address the matter of Master Oldor…’

‘A moment, then, for I really do need to attend to my guests…’

Parvon bowed and headed back to the table. He did not look to see if Melion was following him, and bit down hard on the guilty feelings that pushed once again at his conscience; surely, whatever it was, it could wait for a few minutes, his first responsibility now was these Sailing Elves…

‘Master Parvon, I do not know whether you can help,’ Oldor began. ‘But my friend Mallostor here has a question I am not fully able to answer…’

‘Yes, Master Parvon, it is that, well, some of us, we have our affairs to settle, and Oldor has said we may be leaving in two weeks, and, well, two weeks! And how do we transport our belongings?’

Parvon forbore from mentioning that many elves had got to Valinor the hard way, through the Halls of Mandos, and they took nothing with them. Instead, he nodded and smiled as if this was perfectly reasonable; while it was true that elves were supposed to be non-acquisitive, complete in themselves, he remembered how his heart had turned at the sight of his poor, neglected desk, and realised that it was not always about possessions, but about sentimental attachments.

‘You will not need much, only your clothing and weapons and such small personal items which cannot be replaced; everything you will need is to be found in Valinor. I have had questions previously about taking supplies for business or craft ventures; there will not be unlimited room on the ship, of course, and so the less you take, the more comfortable the voyage, I suppose… if you are thinking of taking more than you can easily bear on your own back, it might be better to join forces with Mistress Cullasbes, whose husband…’ and here he hoped, he really did hope, that Melion was somewhere within earshot, ‘…is making separate arrangements since they wish to take with them the nucleus of their trading wares…’

‘Oh, I see. No, nothing like that, it is simply… it is odd how one gets used to one’s own cup, and plate, and such, is it not?’ The ellon smiled. ‘And… and I think, Master Parvon, I would rather cast in my lot with these good elves and travel under the king’s protection, even if all I take is my bow and my quiver. But, two weeks!’

‘That is the earliest departure date, although it could be a little later; in part, it is linked with when the Ithilien relief company wishes to depart, since they are to be your armed escort. But if you were to miss the ship, you would need to wait for the next to be built, and that is a long delay, I would think.’ He inclined his head. ‘Give the matter some thought, Master Mallostor. As soon as I hear from Ithilien, I will know better about the leaving dates and will make them known to the company at once.’

He bowed and backed away, turning to find Melion still waiting for him near the back of the feasting hall. He made his way over, hoping for a short interview.

‘When we were interrupted, I was about to raise the issue of the employment of Master Oldor in the King’s Office,’ Melion began when Parvon joined him. ‘I have been giving the matter some consideration…’ He lowered his voice. ‘I do not like the plan. For several reasons, I do not think it workable.’

‘How unfortunate!’ Parvon said, keeping the same formal, tight tone Melion was using. ‘Perhaps you could elaborate?’ 

‘Firstly, his association with my brother. You may not be aware, Master Melion, but Baudh has had many special friendships and so far, none have become serious attachments. I fear that, when this current relationship fails, if Master Oldor is working in the King’s Office, it will make for an awkward atmosphere… do you see?’

‘I do, in fact. To my knowledge, since Master Baudh returned to the Old Palace and began working for the King’s Office – a little while before you joined our ranks, if I recall – Baudh has had six lovers and two casual affairs. None of these relationships, however, have ended acrimoniously and so I venture to hope that, should this happen between my two friends, they will be able to continue working side-by-side. What is more, I am a little surprised that you would express such a personal opinion about your brother so openly, casting doubts upon his sincerity; “when this fails” you said, rather than suggesting it as a possibility; it suggests a lack of faith in his heart. Now, it is true you know Baudh better than I – but even so, your personal knowledge of him should, surely, be kept away from your working opinion? After all, it is not really appropriate, is it, to use your family insights to prevent a keen and helpful ellon from starting a new career?’

‘Master Parvon! That is not my intent at all! It is merely – knowing they are in a relationship together…’

‘I had thought that the rules that only single elves – single ellyn, for that matter – were the only persons considered for the King’s Office – had been changed many years ago. Certainly, when, for instance, I accepted Master Faerveren’s request to be an underscribe here, I did not ask about his personal life; it would have been inappropriate and irrelevant.’

‘That is all very well, but proper decorum must be maintained! We represent the King!’

‘We do indeed, but the days when King’s Office personnel were discouraged from having lives – and wives, or husbands – outside of service have passed. We are trusted to behave properly within our roles, and if that means coping with unpleasant personal circumstances, so be it. Many elves in service of the King’s Office have suffered bereavements or suchlike and have continued without issue in their places with no loss of decorum. I am sure you do not need to be concerned about Master Oldor!’

‘Very well, since you seem so set on my employing him… we will see how matters progress. But standards, Master Parvon, must be maintained! There can be no unwarranted displays of emotion in the King’s Office.’

‘Indeed. We should encode that in the Book of Practices and ensure your father reads it when he returns, do you not think?’ 

Melion’s jaw dropped open and Parvin enjoyed for a brief moment the sight of the Elf-in-Charge looking totally at a loss. Before Melion could recover, and begin once more, Parvon bowed.

‘My friends at the table demand my attention. Good evening to you, Master Melion.’


	70. Composure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Baudh is upset, and Melion attempts to be magnanimous...

‘And just what have you been saying about my father, Master Parvon?’ Baudh demanded.

Parvon blinked. Although said lightly, the smile on Baudh’s face was forced, nowhere near as friendly as usual, and, having expected his usual greeting, a joke, perhaps, when he’d arrived to tour the accommodations, this gave Parvon a moment’s pause.

‘Nothing, that I can recall; I am very fond of Merenor, he has always been very kind to me… Oh. Could this have something to do with the conversation I had with Melion last night? In fact, when your brother suggested, in a roundabout sort of way, that you and Oldor together in the King’s Office would make it an indecorous place, I simply suggested that he should add decorum to the office rules, and his Ada should read them too… I meant no offence to good Master Merenor… only to good Master Melion who, I am afraid, wore down my patience last night.’

Baudh gave a sniggering laugh and his smile grew much friendlier.

‘Ah, I did wonder! Yes, that sounds much more likely than Melion’s account… I think he is finding the present situation a bit difficult? He’s worried about his work here, and that he might have to go away for a while, and…’ Baudh grimaced and slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Rather like you, in fact, but my brother has a loving spouse to support him and is without all the distress of seeing people dying and everything… Sorry, sorry, I’ll stop talking now, shall I?’

Parvon found himself smiling.

‘That won’t be necessary, Baudh. Melion and I are both awkwardly placed, I think. And while it was generous of him to once express the thought that he and I are equals, the sentiment works better for him as a theoretical framework rather than a working model, perhaps.’

‘Well, I’m glad I didn’t have to fall out with you over Ada, I am too grateful that you managed to get Oldor into the King’s Office; it pleases us both. And we will be perfectly decorous, I promise! Even to the point where this morning, he’s helping Melion with filing, I hope you don’t mind? It’s almost as if Melion wants to show Oldor isn’t going to be just your helper, but generally involved in things.’

‘I expected no less. In fact, it integrates him rather more firmly into the King’s Office, I should say. Now, the arriving elves’ accommodations…?’

‘So. We have several families coming this time, I thought to keep them grouped together – away from the single elves – and the elflings can all run about together in the corridors that way… there are gates…’

‘I do hope they will not be housed too near my rooms?’

‘Nowhere near either set, no. Come, let me show you…’

*

They had reached the last of the planned family homes when Master Oldor appeared in the open doorway.

‘There you are! Baudh, Melion sent me to tell you that the mail’s in from the convoy…’

‘Good, thank you, ah… come in, shut the door…’ Baudh glanced across at Parvon. ‘I’ll let you tell him, shall I?’

‘Tell me what? Have I done something wrong? If so, I am sorry…’

‘Sit down a moment,’ Parvon said, indicating a chair and himself following suit. ‘Do not be anxious! You cannot be expected to know unless you are told, or have seen for yourself, so this is information for you, that is all. You have done nothing wrong, therefore, although you may have mis-spoken slightly…’

‘Oh, I… sorry, Master Parvon…’

‘No, it is well. Firstly, when you are on the business of the King’s Office, you should use formal address. So even though Baudh is your friend, you should use his title as you used mine just now.’

‘I see. Yes, that makes sense, although there wasn’t anyone else to hear…’

‘This is true. But to get into the habit early is wise. Secondly, for an underscribe, it is important always to follow three basic principles; be explicit, be exacting, be accurate. When Master Melion sent you to give a message to Master Baudh did he add “and Master Parvon” to it also?’

‘No, he didn’t, sorry, but I thought he just meant that he expected Baudh to be on his own, I…’

‘Really, it is fine,’ Parvon said firmly. ‘It is more likely that Melion has not thought to be sufficiently exact in his phrasing. In future, you could simply draw the recipient of your message to one side before passing on the information. There may be occasions when, as now, it is unimportant, but there may be other times when the message is sensitive. Always do exactly as you are asked, to the letter, that is the way in the King’s Office.’ He paused to log Baudh’s half-hidden grin. ‘Or at least, and I would not say this in front of Master Melion lest it seem a criticism, it was in my day.’

‘Well, the New Palace always seemed very organised, even in crisis.’ Oldor looked from Parvon to Baudh. ‘Master Parvon, I believe Master Melion was expecting Master Baudh to return with me, although he did not say so…?’

‘You learn swiftly,’ Parvon said. ‘Now you may return to Melion and say the message is delivered, and if he queries where Baudh is, offer to return for him.’

‘Although that might annoy him,’ Baudh said, grinning easily. ‘Just say I’ve something to finish and I’ll be with him as soon as I can.’  
Oldor got to his feet and bowed. ‘Yes, Master Baudh,’ he said.

*

‘What do we make of that?’ Baudh asked softly when Oldor was out of earshot. ‘You’re usually the elf who gets told about the despatches…’

‘Officially because it is forewarning of the arrival of displaced elves,’ Parvon answered. ‘I would say, either Melion is trying to avoid me after last night’s awkwardness, or there is something in the missives he does not wish me to know about. Or there has been a message to say the convoy is halting for their daymeal before pressing on, in which case they will not be here for several hours and so no need for me to be alerted yet. It is probably nothing to worry about.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, although I think it’s just my brother getting huffy. You know, he’s not like this when Adar’s here…’

‘Your father is much missed, I am sure. Really, Baudh, I meant what I said; Merenor has always been a good friend to me, and while I was in charge, he took pains never to do anything that might offend any visitors to the King’s Office; I would not have you think…’

‘I know, it’s just Melion paraphrasing. Well, I’d better go and find out what’s in the despatch bag, I suppose.’ He nodded briefly. ‘I’ll try to let you know if it’s something you’d be interested in.’

Parvon watched him go and then allowed his shoulders to sag. The only real reason he could think of that he had been passed over in favour of Baudh was that Melion had decided to work to the letter of the procedural manual – which was quite specific on scribes receiving personal mail amongst the official dispatches, and the last thing Parvon wanted was a confrontation about letters from Triwathon, especially today, when he really, really wanted to hear from him… 

*

When Parvon arrived at the King’s Office, he found Baudh busy explaining something to do with the double-logging system to Oldor; he raised his head briefly and gave Parvon an intense grimace, but before any words could be exchanged, Melion emerged from his private office.

‘Master Parvon, I require a moment of your time, if you would?’

A definite diminishment of courtesy and increase of formality in Melion’s tone. So. Parvon inclined his head.

‘I have several moments available, Master Melion. How may I serve?’

Melion bowed and gestured Parvon into his office, waiting to close the door after him. Ah. Private, then. Now, that was either considerate, or else Melion wanted no witnesses…

‘The dispatches are in,’ Melion began without preamble, indicating a chair and seating himself opposite. ‘And… you may perhaps be concerned to learn there is no personal communication for you this time…’

_What?_

No letter from Triwathon, was he well, what had happened, was it just…?

‘…which is why I didn’t let you know straight away, I wanted to be sure there was no mistake. But no, there is nothing for you of a private nature.’

Parvon gathered himself internally, remembered all the words he had said on the subject of behaving to standards in the King’s Office. Melion had paused and had rearranged his face so that his expression was sympathetic and waiting… just waiting to be kindly understanding… (Ai, Valar save him from Melion’s pity, especially when it meant Melion could demonstrate his moral superiority by being magnanimously supportive instead of hurt, still, from their last meeting…)

Parvon, also, waited, as if it didn’t matter, as if he wasn’t heartbroken and worried and sick to the stomach with some undefined, roiling emotion…

Finally, Melion continued.

‘No, for once all the messages are on the King’s business, the garrison letters have already gone to the Over-captain’s office…’

‘Indeed?’

‘And so, you see, I thought to mention it to you privately so you would not be too disappointed; I know you value the letter from your friend… perhaps there is something for you with one of the convoy, it may be that it is too private to go in the dispatches bag…’

Melion was trying hard, Parvon noted through his numbness. No. He would not give him the satisfaction of… of being _kind_ to him…

‘Or maybe it was noted that it was not an official communication,’ Melion went on, ‘after all, we do not generally used the dispatches for nonessential…’

No. No, that was enough. Parvon was not going to let himself be lectured, after the fact, when there was nothing to be lectured for, not this time, not now… there had to have been something at the New Palace that had needed consultation between the Garrison Commander and the former Elf-in-Charge…

Yes. There had been a matter that had been part of the correspondence, and never mind that it had been more like gossip than consultation…

‘One of those awkward jurisdictional matters,’ Parvon said, hoping his voice was stronger than it sounded in his ears. ‘It has been under discussion in the letters between myself and the Commander of the garrison. There may have been no progress on the matter, in which case, there is nothing to communicate.’

‘I do not see what it could possibly be, Master Parvon, I had thought your friend…’

‘Why should you? It was our business, not that of the King’s Office… Commander Triwathon…’ (he did not falter on the name, he was pleased to note) ‘…has someone in charge in the cells. A village elder, who had been commanded by the king to return to the Old Palace as soon as he was recovered from his injuries. He declined a place with the first convoy as he was not quite healed, yet although he was definitely fit to travel for the next, he refused, and grew so unpleasant to Healer Maereth that he was taken from her care and put under lock and key. Of course, what to do with him next is the problem; he has refused to travel and yet matters must be arranged. As Chief Scribe when the king’s order was given, it is still, in part, my responsibility. I can only think that the Commander is awaiting the king’s desire.’ 

‘This is the first I have heard of the matter…!’

‘Perhaps you can mention the situation to his majesty at your next meeting? But after all, it has been between the Garrison and the Palace Office, acting for the king. Why trouble you with such things?’ Parvon steadied his nerve; his hands, clasped together on his lap and shielded by the edge of the desk, were trembling. ‘Is there anything further, Master Melion?’

‘Not at present, Master Parvon.’

‘Very well. Did the one who brought the despatches say when the convoy is expected to arrive, perchance?’

‘In fact, yes. The plan is to press on after the shortest of pauses; they will be here by mid-afternoon at the latest.’

‘Thank you; I shall go to the Healer Hall and make sure Healers Nestoril and Gaelbes are aware of the fact.’

‘And are you expecting to be at your desk at all today, Master Parvon?’

‘That rather depends on the arriving elves, Master Melion; I would hope so, perhaps after I have seen the Healers and before the arrival of the convoy, if there is time. Should anyone look for me, Baudh or Master Oldor will be able to direct them to me.’

He rose and nodded, leaving swiftly and determinedly not making eye-contact with Baudh on his way out. Almost he expected to be followed, for Baudh had looked anxious on Parvon’s arrival, and so, knowing his preferred place of solitude was not secret from good Master Baudh, who really was kind-hearted and friendly, he headed for his formal rooms and shut himself in there instead.

He arrived with relief, for he still found it difficult to tread these passageways, to think of Triwathon having gone along here to visit Glorfindel in the rooms now Baudh’s, but today there had been an especial bitterness to the walk.

Alone, finally, and reasonably certain he would not be disturbed for a little while, he cast himself down on the too-big bed and stared up at the plain ceiling above as he tried to settle himself.

It was difficult. He kept travelling the same mental trails, like paths in the forest that would lead the unwary back to where they had started.

Triwathon had not written. He had a garrison to run, of course, and might simply have run out of time. (Or he was too busy with his new lover to write.) It was not like him, though, to not share his joy in anything, even something that would cause Parvon pain; Parvon had always been honest about his feelings and adamant he would not let his emotional attachment intrude on their friendship, had insisted that he expected Triwathon to make no allowances, and so, taking him at his word, Triwathon had made none…

So why not write to say, this one has come into my life, and I am no longer sad? After all, the knowing that Triw was happier would bring gladness to a true friend, and Parvon had always tried to be that…

He remembered his joy and surprise when the first, unexpected letter had arrived, how his spirits had lifted and how much it had meant to him… but still, it had been an unexpected kindness, and surely he had no right to now expect a letter every convoy, he was, perhaps, being greedy and demanding…

Even so, it hurt that Triwathon had not written. But he had been so happy a few days ago, happy and… and relaxed, and then… nothing. Although he had not sought contact, Parvon had not felt the mood of his friend’s fëa since then… one did not, of course, always know what another fëa was feeling, usually just the excesses of danger or despair or delight – but Parvon had been so swamped with guilt over the deteriorating professional relationship with Master Melion that it was no wonder, really, that he had not been open to more from his friend…

But if Triwathon was content, that was enough. (It would have to be enough…) He may simply have been too busy, too… too happy. (Or it might be that his new lover might not look kindly on him writing to a friend…) 

Parvon could write to him, of course, ask if he was well, busy, how was the duty, what was the situation with Elder Gomben… he had the rest of the day and all of the morrow during which to compose a letter; it need not be much, it need not be… be needy… it could be, how are you, I expect you are busy, but are you well…? 

A part of him recoiled, however. If Triwathon was wrapped up in a new love, then a letter from Parvon, not in reply to one from him, would seem…intrusive, perhaps. Or desperate, might make him seem a figure of fun… (Or again, the new lover might not like that Parvon was writing, might take exception to it, and Parvon would not cause problems for his dear friend…)

A note, though, just a few lines, it would have been enough. (Parvon could have made it be enough.)

Too much time passed as he tried to rationalise his disappointment and worry, and with a start, he realised that he ought really to have been at the Healers’ Hall an hour since, but he could not just go, not as he was, he must tidy himself, remind himself that he was a King’s Office scribe, and as such, he represented the king and there was no place for personal emotion during working hours…

Presently, he was calm enough, his reflection looked calmer, more like himself, and he was able to head off towards the Healers’ Hall, outwardly composed, to ensure Healer Nestoril and her company were in expectation of the convoy.

Perhaps one amongst the company would have news, if there was news to tell.


	71. Unexpected Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon learns something about Triwathon of which he was unaware...

Parvon had travelled along two corridors and was approaching the turn which led to the Healers’ Hall when Baudh and Oldor stepped out of a side passage and came to stand in front of him. They bowed before moving to fall neatly into step half a stride behind him. From somewhere, Oldor had found a formal King’s Office robe which was a trifle too long; Parvon suspected perhaps one of Lord Arveldir’s spares had been pressed into use.

‘Would you care to explain, Master Baudh?’ Parvon asked crisply.

‘The arrival of the convoy is the perfect opportunity for you to introduce Master Oldor as your new assistant, and to inform the elves that, should you be overtaken with work for the sailing company, I am an adequate alternative senior member of the King’s Office. Arriving together, we present a unified picture, a sense of the entire Divisions of Matters Transitional and Matters Material.’

‘I see. Very good. Master Oldor, I take it you now understand the intricacies of the double-entry filing cabinets?’

‘To the last degree, I hope, Master Parvon.’

‘Excellent.’ Parvon nodded once, keeping his eyes on the way ahead. ‘What word, Master Baudh?’

‘The perimeter watch sent notice just under an hour ago. Master Melion expressed the thought that perhaps you had stayed with the Healers to help them prepare, which is why the news did not come from you. However, as I explained to Master Oldor, there is no need for you, the Elf-in-Charge of the Department of Transitions, to inform the King’s Office generally of matters which you are dealing with.’

In other words, Baudh had covered for him and, worryingly, the convoy would be arriving before the Healers had more than a few minutes warning, and that was most definitely Parvon’s fault. He glanced around to ensure they were the sole occupants of the corridor, and paused to incline his head to Baudh.

‘I am grateful. Perhaps the demarcation of the dissemination of information needs addressing in the King’s Office.’

‘Possibly.’ Baudh stifled a grin. ‘Something else for the procedures manual. We can talk later, maybe. Meanwhile, what do you think of Oldor and I taking the meeting, and you overseeing it?’

‘I think it would be a huge imposition on my part to expect it…’

‘But very good practice for Master Oldor ahead of tomorrow when he will be going with you to settle everyone in their accommodations, do you not think?’

‘Indeed. In fact, perhaps, once I have made the introductions, I should just leave you to it?’

Baudh laughed. ‘What would happen then to our impressive representation of our divisions? No, I think we need you tagging along, at least for a little while.’

‘Very good of you,’ Parvon said. ‘I shall step back, then, and let you lead instead.’

‘Ah, now, I wouldn’t want to overstep my authority…’

Parvon smiled, as was expected, and when they reached the Healers’ Hall, preceded his two companions into the wide entrance chamber. Thus it was that the figure holding Healer Nestoril in conversation saw him before he noticed Baudh and Oldor behind him.

‘Master Parvon, there you are! I had just come to see Healer Nestoril to ensure she had been told of the early arrival of the convoy…’

‘And Master Melion has found the Healers Hall prepared and ready, of course, Master Parvon!’ Nestoril gestured to a large room off the entrance where tables held a selection of refreshments and chairs were placed as for a large assembly. ‘Although it really was not necessary for Master Melion to come all this way to ensure we were coping! But hello and well met once again!’

‘Healer Nestoril, good day to you.’

‘And I see you have the rest of your team with you ready to meet the convoy! I am glad you returned, there is a matter I would like to lay before you prior to the arrivals' arrival.’

‘Of course, Healer. I am entirely at your disposal.’

Melion cleared his throat and lifted an eyebrow, a decidedly less-than-approving expression flashing across his face, and Parvon bit back an exasperated sigh.

‘…once I have consulted with my colleague, if you will, Healer?’

‘Come to my study once your business is done, Master Parvon.’

*

Melion looked over to his brother, waiting with Oldor near the doorway.

‘Baudh, take your friend and do something useful somewhere else, will you? I want to talk to Parvon in private.’

Parvon shook his head. ‘But, Master Melion, it is you and I who should find somewhere private, if it is necessary; Masters Baudh and Oldor are working.’

A sigh, and Melion staked out of the entrance hall and into the corridors beyond.

‘I must confess I really cannot be doing with your inconsistencies, Master Parvon, not knowing where you will be… I was surprised to find you had even been here!’

‘Was it in doubt, Master Melion? And I must confess I do not quite understand why you feel the need to map out my every moment! I have been working for his majesty all my adult life, I take my responsibilities, and my duties, most seriously and would not offer my king anything less than all my service. In truth, I find your excessive interest in my work a little intrusive…’

‘I was simply concerned for you, Master Parvon, after your disappointment this morning…’

‘Disappointment? Ah, yes, that there has been no word yet about Elder Gomben’s choice, whether to join the convoy or remain under lock and key… I am sure I will adjust, whatever the news.’

Melion tensed, as if this was almost like a slap across the cheek.

‘I see. I was trying to be kind, but... Well, in that case, I will leave you to your duty and return to the King’s Office; it is currently in the care of the Matrimonial ellith.’

‘And very good guardians they are. Now, I have already kept Healer Nestoril waiting…’

‘For how long, I wonder?’ Melion muttered. 

Parvon chose to ignore the remark.

‘If I do not return to my desk today, I will send word with Baudh or Oldor.’

‘I shall give orders to the servants to dust the chair in your workroom, then, in anticipation.’ Melion said formally. ‘Now, I must go, for I do have work waiting.’ 

Turning on his heel, he headed off down the corridor, leaving Parvon to return to the Healers Hall, silently seething. This was becoming intolerable…

_In fact, why ought he to tolerate it?_

The thought startled him, but he chased it away to answer Baudh’s concerned enquiry with as natural a smile as he could manage.

‘Perhaps, while I speak to Healer Nestoril, you would like to wait in the reception room?’ he suggested. ‘I think Healer Gaelbes is there, and if the convoy arrives while I am busy, you can welcome them on behalf of the King’s Office?’

‘Good idea, Master Parvon. And, if you need to talk later, about… work, I can make time.’

‘I am grateful. But all is under control.’ 

Parvon’s smile became too tight on his face, uncomfortable, and he was glad to tip his head and move past, heading towards Nestoril’s study.

Her door was open and she herself smiling a warm welcome.

‘Do join me, Master Parvon, near the window; I have arranged for tea, as you will notice. Forgive me, but you look as if you are in need of a restorative of a stronger nature, however. There is firewine, if you wish, instead.’

‘Tea is more than adequate, my thanks.’ Assuming an oblique reference to his state of composure, perhaps to the less-than-cordial exchange with Melion that Healer Nestoril had witnessed, Parvon felt obliged to make some sort of explanation. ‘It is a busy time with arrangements for sailing as well as new arrivals. We have very lately admitted Master Oldor to our ranks, which will make matters run more smoothly presently.’

‘…but, of course, any new member of staff needs settling in and at first the workload increases as a result.’ Nestoril smiled and poured the tea, gesturing Parvon to sit. ‘Of course, it will be good for the whole King’s Office if Master Oldor settles in swiftly, as it appears to me that Master Melion is about to have one of his little turns again.’

‘In fact, Master Oldor is already proving very helpful and… I beg your pardon? Do you suggest Master Melion is… unwell?’

‘Not as such, no. It is more that there are times when he is not quite his usual, cheerful, helpful self. If he is anxious, or worried, for example, but it passes swiftly off. For a few days, a week or so, however, he is obsessed with making sure every detail of each task is performed with exactitude. I think he fears that the geniality of his father may make him seem unsuitable for so formal a position as he holds, and so he has to remind himself he can be formal and precise.’ She looked down and arched an eyebrow. ‘It does not suit him, unfortunately, and he over-compensates at times. And so when he asked whether I had received notice of the early arrival of the convoy, I was able to assure him that of course I had. Not that it is any of his business how I run my Halls, and I am always ready for the convoy several hours before they are due. However, today…’ Now she glanced up, twinkling a smile that was almost mischievous. ‘Today Master Thindorion rode on ahead with the dispatch riders, and called in to let me know how things stood.’

‘Ah…’ Parvon took a moment to assimilate this and, after deciding Nestoril’s explanation of Melion’s mood was an attempt at kindness rather than anything else, found his attention caught by the latter part of her speech. ‘You know Master Thindorion? That is, of course, you must know most of the elves in the palace…’

‘Yes, true, but we are old friends. Our blue Healers’ robes are dyed by his team to his specific instructions for us. If I may, it was a kindness of you to arrange for him to pay this visit to the New Palace. I know he badly wished to see Commander Triwathon to say goodbye before taking ship.’

‘Tr…’ Parvon broke off. Hearing Triwathon’s name when he least expected it startled him almost out of his already-fragile composure. ‘That is to say, I had been unaware of any friendship between the commander and Master Thindorion; it was just that he had assumed the way to the ship was through the Havens and therefore the New Palace was on his way…. That is, I…’

‘You were being helpful because it is your nature, then, not because you knew Commander Triwathon would be glad of the opportunity to see his friend once more… that is even kinder, I think, than had you known! But Master Thindorion is very grateful, and it seems the reunion was exactly what he had hoped. Now… I really do have a matter to put to you, Master Parvon… the elves who are arriving today, they are all willing travellers, I understand?’

Glad to be distracted from the unexpectedly alarming news that Triwathon and Thindorion were old friends, Parvin answered quickly.

‘Yes, that is so. My information says there are no recovering injured amongst them, nor any who are grieving particular friends or family.’

‘That is well, then, they will need less reorienting, I think… Master Melion said he thought their rooms must be ready, for you and Master Baudh have spent a lot of time on them lately?’

‘Indeed, Master Baudh and I made our final checks this morning.’ Parvon nodded. ‘All have basic furnishings, which may look sparse, but the will suffice. People may choose what they want once they are settled.’

‘Which leads on to my next thought… Could the elves go to their new quarters today? It is not that I do not have room, for I do, and I am glad to host them. But it being early in the day, they will be milling about here until supper time… while if they went to their new homes, they could look about them, perhaps eat there, or in the Feasting Hall, and not feel rushed… and it ought to free up more time for the King’s Office tomorrow…’

‘Ah… yes, yes I think… if the elves themselves are happy with the arrangement, why not? That is to say, enough gossip has filtered backwards and forwards that they will not be expecting their former homes to be made free for them, which has always been the main sticking-point.’

‘That’s settled then. You will pardon me, but are you quite well, Master Parvon? My tea usually has a restorative effect, even if it is not as potent as firewine, but you look a little wan…’

A knock at the door and an underhealer with news that the elves were at the doors meant Parvon was not forced into lying to the Healer. 

‘Thank you, Aeglosdes, I am on my way,’ Nestoril told the elleth who had brought the news. ‘Well, Master Parvon, there will be more refreshments in the welcome room, should you wish for some.’

‘Indeed, you are most kind.’

He stepped aside for her to precede him, needing to be out of sight while he rearranged his features and his ideas… Triwathon and Thindorion were friends…? How had he not known? Triw had talked about most aspects of his life during their friendship at the New Palace; the only real exception had been tales from his youth, possibly because his lover the poacher was now dead, and to remember the days would be to remember him… although Triw always said it was because he had been so young, and so silly, that he bore no resemblance to his current self… if Thindorion had been a friend from that time, it would explain his reticence…

…Ah, of course. Triwathon had once ordered a kilt dyed an impossible shade of blue as a gift for Glorfindel, it had dazzled and startled the entire palace, there had been no avoiding it, or the golden elf it adorned… and Thindorion was the Healers’ dyer, and knew the knack of blue, so that might have been how they knew each other, if not from earlier…

…but he could not understand why he was so _worried_. Thindorion had struck him as a pleasant, genial fellow, hard-working and kind. There were few elves that Parvon liked almost at first sight, but the dyer had been one such, and if Triw needed a friend…

…that was it, though; Parvon knew what sort of friendship Triwathon thought he needed, and… and… _and, oh, the emotions of Triwathon’s fëa had been so…_

No. He would not torment himself, he would not allow his personal feelings to impinge upon his functional abilities, he had work to do, a room full of elves to address… Later, he could deal with all this later, when he had time and privacy and, _oh, Triwathon, was it this Thindorion? Was it? Did I bring you back together, did you think I had done it deliberately, to be kind to you both…? Did you… with him… because you thought I had sent him for your sake…?_

_No!_ He could not do this now, he could not let his mind drift now, he must work…

Swallowing hard and trying to put his Palace Office mask in place on his face, Parvon emerged from the corridor into the entrance hall in Nestoril’s wake, where the first elf he saw hailed him with a friendly, delighted smile.

‘Master Parvon! The very person I was hoping to see!’ 

The very last person Parvon wanted to meet just then...

But Thindorin stood before him smiling in his friendly way, fully expecting an answer, utterly unaware of the confusion he had cast Parvon into. Making an effort, Parvon ignored his personal feelings and tried to be welcoming and gracious.

‘Master Thindorion. Well met, and, welcome back to the Old Palace.’

‘My thanks. And, for arranging matters for me, I am truly grateful; it would have hurt my fëa to leave without bidding my friend the best goodbye I could, but he is well, and settled, and he has a good friend to support him, so I learn… I mean your good self, of course, Master Parvon, for I heard how much Commander Triwathon values you.’

‘Indeed?’ It was all Parvon could do to answer calmly, and he was terribly anxious lest he be blushing, not at the compliment, but at the thought of what that ‘best goodbye’ may have been, and trying so hard not to... ‘I am sorry if I intruded on your time, even in conversation. I… I hope you found the commander well?’

‘Yes, he seemed very well to me. Sad, of course, because of his friend. Oh, and, yes, not at all. We were at supper in the main hall, and I mentioned you, and two warriors with us laughed, not understanding that an elf with ink-stained fingers may also bear the callouses of using a bow. I should have known better myself, of course. Triwathon spoke out for your importance and claimed you as a friend.’

‘Indeed, I am honoured to be such. That is good news, I… sometimes, there is word from him, but not this time. He is busy, of course, but I am glad to hear he is well.’

‘That would be my fault; all his spare time, I think, he gave to me. The second night, we were up talking to the early hours, and then he insisted on seeing me off after breaking fast with me and around garrison matters. It was a kindness.’

Parvon nodded, desperate to turn away from the implications of Triwathon spending all his time with Thindorion; personal feelings aside, he had a room full of elves to greet – but the dyer seemed loath to move off. Hoping to gain at least a breathing-space to assimilate the conversation, Parvon latched on to the topic that had brought Thindorion to his attention in the first place.

‘Do you still intend to take ship, Master Thindorion? Or has your visit perhaps stayed your plan?’

‘Ai, now there is a thing…! My dear friend will not sail, not even for my sake, but nor will I stay, not even for his! What is there to say to that, except just as I thought I had grown in importance to him, perhaps, I find that we do not quite like each other well enough to be anything other than selfish! Yes, I still will sail, and take my memories of him away with me.’

‘Ah… yes, the commander, once he makes up his mind, is frequently unshakeable. I mention it merely because there was a major orientation session for those planning to make the trip while you were away; at some point, you will need the same information, as the journey to Ithilien will be a long one and must therefore begin soon. At present, I am a little busy with your travelling companions, but my new assistant Master Oldor would be free tomorrow to…’

‘Perhaps we could meet later today, then?’ Thindorion suggested. ‘If the leaving date is soon, well, I am all settled in again and ready for the next adventure. I’m free before supper, or we could share the meal, perhaps?’

‘I am sure you are always ready for the next venture, Master Thindorion. Yes, very well, if it is easier for you, we can meet later. The hour before first serving, will that suit? I will be free by then. You know where my workroom is, I have all the documentation there.’


	72. An "Old Friend" of a Friend...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon's meeting with Thindorion takes a surprising turn...

Consumed as he was by the encounter with Triwathon’s “old friend” Thindorion, Parvon moved through the newly-arrived elves as if sleepwalking. He spoke greetings and welcomes, he knew his face smiled just the proper amount, his questions were appropriate and well-received. Around the room, Oldor and Baudh engaged the elves in conversation; he heard laughter, easy conversations of which he was no part. A glass of light wine in his hand, and no idea who put it there… 

‘Master Parvon? Sir?’ A touch on his arm; Oldor bowed to him. ‘I think we’re almost ready for your address.’

Ah, yes. That. His welcome speech. 

‘Of course. And well done, Oldor; you have put the room at ease, and acquitted yourself well.’

‘Thank you, Master Parvon. Um… shall I call them to order for you?’

‘I must first check something with Master Baudh.’ He caught Baudh’s eye and made his way across the room. ‘Master Baudh, Healer Nestoril has a suggestion about accommodating the elves today, rather than tomorrow, if that is well with you?’

‘We’re ready with the rooms… yes, it is a good plan. Master Parvon, if you have other duties, I can take the speech for you…?’

‘Take over from me, perhaps, to explain about the rooms, once I have broached the topic. And, if you were willing, you and Master Oldor could escort the elves to their new homes? I would not ask, but I have to meet with an elf who was not here for the briefing about the trip to Ithilien…’

‘Ah, the lovely Thindorion? He will be a loss to the forest, and not only for his decorative dyes; he is rather decorative himself, do you not think?’

‘I hardly know,’ Parvon said. ‘Perhaps Master Oldor will have an opinion, if you ask him?’

‘Now, I wouldn’t have you thinking I don’t value the elf I have, Master P… Oh, you were teasing! I beg your pardon! No, I will take care of my dear friend Oldor and leave you to make friends with the handsome Thindorion, even if your idea of friendship isn’t quite the same as mine.’

‘I think the many forms of friendship that exist between elves of all natures and preferences can only enrich our lives, Master Baudh, but I prefer to sample fewer of them than other elves do, it may be. And so, the welcome speech. But there would be little point befriending an elf who is so soon to leave us.’ 

He made his way to the front of the room and signalled to Oldor, who quieted the room for him. His words he kept simple, much the same as he’d already said personally; a welcome home, his regrets that their new lives had been disrupted but an assurance that their wellbeing was paramount to the king and, therefore, to the King’s Office. He added how carefully the new rooms had been chosen, and mentioned Baudh as the person who had seen to the fittings and furnishings. 

‘In point of fact,’ he went on, seeing an opportunity, ‘Master Baudh is willing to escort you to your rooms this afternoon, should you wish to do so. Of course, Healer Nestoril has assured me that, as is the usual practice, if you wished to dine and sleep here tonight, you will be very welcome, but arriving so early, there is not the need as with previous convoys, some of whom were injured from the fire and had made uncomfortable journeys. I will leave the choice to yourselves. Master Baudh is also the elf to speak to about the furnishings you may wish to change or add to, in days to come. Master Oldor, as some of you will know, was formerly resident in the region of the New Palace and if you have any questions about settling in, he is the elf to speak to, for he has done so himself. Meanwhile, if any of you should decide you wish to sail, perhaps, then I am at your disposal and will be glad to discuss the practicalities with you. And now, I will leave you with my good friends Master Baudh and Master Oldor, and of course Healers Nestoril, Gaelbes, and Gyril.’

That said, he bowed and smiled, and left the Healers’ Hall before anyone could beg for a brief moment of his time.

In fact, there was still more than an hour before he could expect Thindorion at his workroom door, but he might need all of that time and more, perhaps, to collect his wild ideas and try to make them form coherent, logical thoughts which he could approach and process in a sensible, calm manner. 

There was also an opportunity to show Melion he had taken his scathing words to heart, simply by knocking on his door and announcing he was at his desk; but it might have been misinterpreted and, really, he did not want another encounter if he could avoid it. Reaching his workroom without interruption or notice, he sat down behind his desk, dropping his head into his hands and allowing himself to sigh.

There was so much to take in, to assimilate, to… to supress, and he did not know how much more he could absorb before the strain began to show; in fact, he was rather worried he already was failing to mask his lack of equilibrium; Baudh offering to help (and, indeed, taking over some of his duties), Healer Nestoril had looked into his face as if expecting him to collapse and even Melion had seemed to be trying to support him… _(may the Valar save him from Melion’s kindness…!)_

No. It was imperative that he master his emotions at the earliest opportunity, although the only way to do so was to face them, however unpleasant.

Very well. Triwathon… had freed himself from the glory of his Balrog-slayer, had found someone he could be close to, so it seemed, so Parvon had felt from his fëa… and that was good, surely? It meant that Triw was healing, at last, would not be so burdened with grief, would be happier thus… and, when Parvon had sensed the lifting of Triwathon’s spirits, he had wondered who it might have been and had not been able to recall there being anyone suitable, anyone whom he would have trusted to be kind, to be careful with Triw’s fragile heart and fëa. Perhaps – if it was right, if his guess was more than just a huge, mistaken and inappropriate assumption – if Thindorion, the “old friend”, had been the one to talk him out of his grief and help him through, then… well, that was better than someone who might have used him, yes? Or one of the younger members of the garrison, from hero-worship of their commander, who might then become needy or bitter, or have approached out of a hope that it would help them to a promotion? No, that would not have been good at all… at least if it were the dyer, then…

If it had to be _someone…_

So. It was just that it had been difficult to face the elf he could not help but think of as Triwathon’s seducer; it was almost a natural reaction, really. No doubt Parvon would feel equally uncomfortable when Thindorion arrived for the meeting, but he must, at least, try to be civil… it might be best not to mention Triw more than he had to… try to keep to business, the ship, sailing, but _oh, Triwathon, was that why you didn’t write to me, was it too much for you to share with me? That, friend to you as I am, I wasn’t friend enough for this...?_

Or was it simply as Thindorion had said, there had not been time, between balancing garrison duties and his “old friend’s” visit, for Triw to scratch down a note?

A surge of bitterness rose up in Parvon and he rose from his desk and stalked his office, trying to shake it off. No, whatever the truth of it, he had to get beyond this hurt; he had a job to do, a position to maintain, his own dignity demanded it of him, he could not, would not give in to bitterness or unkind thoughts. Even towards Triwathon’s seducer, for Parvon had a reputation for fairness and he would maintain it at all costs.

He prepared his desk, gathered up the maps and documents, the logistics of the walk to the ship and set them neatly together to the side of his workspace, fussed with the arrangement of writing materials and was ready and waiting when there were voices, outside.

_‘How may the King’s Office help you today…?’_

_‘I have an appointment with Master Parvon…’_

_‘Ah. I am Melion, the Elf-in-Charge. Perhaps I can assist you? What is the nature of your…?’_

It would have been unfair to enjoy Melion’s discomfiture, and so before the conversation could become too embarrassing, Parvon opened his door and nodded a greeting.

‘Master Thindorion, please come through.’

‘Thank you, Master Parvon. And you also, Master Melion, kind of you to offer to help.’

‘The King’s Office is always happy to serve. Master Parvon, if you have a spare moment later…?’

Parvon inclined his head, but made no other answer to Melion as he opened wider his door and closed it after his visitor.

‘Please, be seated.’ He tried to be briskly business-like, to avoid any awkwardness. ‘And so, sailing… it is not something to undertake lightly – I am obliged to say this to all the elves who consider it – although I did hear from the Lord of Gondolin that the ships can travel in both directions, if they must, this is not widely known or, indeed, encouraged. So once your ship casts off from the shores of Middle Earth, you will have left the Greenwood, and all it holds, behind forever…’

‘When you put it like that…’

‘Indeed.’ Parvon smiled formally, but when one considered the matter…

_When one considered the matter in such fashion, it could be considered as rather appealing; no more Melion, no more watching in fear and anguish as Triwathon lurched from one lover to another… if one had a relative already there, for example, a dear brother… and, there must be work for an advisor to do, even in Valinor someone must need organisational skills…_

‘I suppose it is a very big step. But it’s the right one for me, now. I knew that as soon as Triwathon refused to sail, saying he had palace duties…’ Thindorion’s voice slowed on the last two words, and he paused. ‘Now, that’s a funny thing, isn’t it?’

‘I do not follow?’ Parvon said. Triwathon was a topic he had hoped to avoid with Thindorion, but as he had brought up the name, Triw had best be talked over and then set aside…

‘Well, does he have palace duties? I thought he was in charge of the garrison… Slip of the tongue, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps so.’ Although Triw did tend to be accurate in his manner of speaking, particularly with regards to his areas of responsibility. ‘As you know, we are friends, and he has been always adamant that he will not sail; he is tied to the forest, he has told me.’

‘And you, Master Parvon, are you tied to the forest?’

‘Ah, that is not the point!’ Parvon waved the question away. ‘I am tied to my service, and that is far more demanding than the forest ever could be! Now, since you still intend to sail… I have gathered a few documents together for you, a map, a copy of the itinerary – the company will be escorted by the hunters and warriors going to duty in Ithilien, hence the timing of the march… it will take weeks, with elflings in the company, but his majesty is supporting this venture, and so those taking part must follow his wishes… some elves are travelling privately, I understand, but…’

‘I think I’d rather take my time and wander down with the company,’ Thindorion said. ‘And I have how long to prepare?’

‘I await a messenger hawk, or word from the Over-captain as to when the relief company will leave. He thinks less than four weeks, perhaps no more than two.’

‘Two weeks…! I can do that, I can manage easily… my apprentices might be rather shocked, though. That is to say, who could be ready in so short a time? Could you, for instance?’

Parvo leaned fractionally back, startled by this appeal.

‘I could be ready in two days, if I had to, not that it is relevant. After all, how long does one have to prepare, when Lord Námo calls one home?’

Thindorion grinned, shaking his head. ‘Ai, I do love a cheerful outlook in an elf! But then, your dealings with the king, I suppose, make you privy to all manner of difficult matters; perhaps that is why you look sad so much. Well, I suppose I could make a start on things tonight… there’s always a drawer full of odds and ends, is there not? Oh, a thought…’ The dyer rose to his feet, gathered up the papers Parvon had pushed towards him. ‘When does the next convoy go back? That is, could I send a letter, a message when it does?’

‘I do not see why not. Strictly speaking, there is little personal correspondence between the New Palace and the Old, and you would be better served, I think, passing it to one of the escort guards. There is usually a full day to rest the horses and prepare, and they leave the following morning.’

‘You guessed I intend to write to Triwathon? I want to thank him again for… everything.’

‘Everything.’ Parvon was unaware he’d spoken aloud until he noted Thindorion looking at him. 

‘Yes, we were good friends in his green youth, and he welcomed me back into his life as if I’d never been away, gave me time, his company, even tried to show me how to shoot straight again… Master Parvon, I know you’re a private person and I don’t want to be impertinent, but… but I need to know before I sail… Have I caused you harm, in any way?’

‘I… that is an unexpected question… what would make you think…?’

‘I… maybe I shouldn’t press, but I don’t want to carry this away with me, I…’ 

‘There is no need to…’

‘Are you the one? I… forgive me, that is, Triwathon said there was an elf who thought they were fëa-mates, he did not say who, but… but he said there was nobody in his heart except his dead friend and I was so eager to hear that I didn’t want to know about this other elf at the time, but if… if I have harmed your fëa, or brought you unhappiness by my actions, I am sorry.’

He placed his hand on his heart and bowed.

‘Master Parvon, I truly have no wish to hurt anyone, least of all you.’

‘I… there is no need for this, I cannot think what…’

‘I do not know how I know, not really, but… Palace duties, Triwathon said. Yet he stumbled over the start of the word. I think he was about to say, when I asked him to sail, that he couldn’t leave Parvon. Perhaps he meant, with all the work still to do, but… but then there is that unhappiness about your eyes, Master Parvon, and I felt awkward, when we met this afternoon, in a way I had not felt before. Then, too, as I was leaving the New Palace, I said to Triwathon not to worry, that while I was here I would cultivate your friendship, and for an instant, he looked as if he might cheerfully murder me… and so I believe, Master Parvon, that you are the elf who is Triwathon’s fëa-mate, and for some reason, he hasn’t seen it, or didn’t acknowledge it, and I am sorry...’

Parvon’s throat closed and he looked down, nodding once. He did not want to acknowledge this, did not want to betray himself with an unseemly display, but… but… 

_But to be able to speak of this, albeit obliquely, would be such a relief to his fëa…!_

‘The situation between Commander Triwathon and… it is complicated. We have been friends for decades, and working so closely together made it imperative we understand one another, so there was a need for him to be aware of my… we simply worked around any awkwardness. I… in my day, you understand, elves of the King’s Office did not expect a life outside service and duty; I began my training fully expecting never to find a spouse. I… if your visit to my friend the commander has lessened his grief, then I can only be glad for him. But as for anything more...’

Thindorion shook his head. ‘You are a good friend to him, but… do you not see? It’s different now. I’m sailing, he’s not bound to me in any way, or to anyone. Your way is clear, you can go and speak to him, he can’t keep hiding from his heart, I am sure of it…’

‘You misunderstand, I fear. It is not that simple. Apart from any other considerations, Triwathon is serving at the New Palace and I am confined to my situation here.’

Thindorion shook his head.

‘And you will not even try? I am sure, if you were to try…?’

Parvon was silent for a moment, torn between shock at the effrontery of this and acknowledging the genuine kindness that lay behind it. He fell back on formality, disregarding the appeal.

‘Is there anything else the King’s Office may help you with, Master Thindorion?’

‘I’m sorry, Master Parvon, I meant no offence. It is just, the more I talk with you, the more I am sure Triwathon is wrong, and that you are right for each other…’

‘Well. As I said, I have long since come to terms with life as a single ellon. I am sure Triwathon will find companionship again, in time. He has proven himself adaptable.’

Thindorion laughed. ‘Oh, he has that…! And so, I yield! But, Master Parvon, if you will have it so, then there is no occasion for there to be any awkwardness between us, is there?’

‘That is true, Master Thindorion. Even if it were any of my concern, I would bear you no ill-will for your friendship with our mutual friend.’

‘Then there’s no reason we can’t be friends ourselves, is there?’

‘I… it is flattering, but I am not quite sure how you are interpreting "friend" here…’

‘In the most innocent manner possible, Master Parvon. It is true, I will leave soon, and you may wonder, what is the point? But I have it on the best authority that you are an excellent shot; I am dearly in need of some coaching with the short bow, ahead of the journey, and I would rather not do so in practice along side of experienced hunters and warrior-archers… what do you think?’

‘I am not sure it would be appropriate…’

‘But how is it inappropriate, may I ask? Shall we say tomorrow, then? Perhaps during the break for the daymeal, I expect you are busy outside of that… perhaps you know somewhere we can practice where we will not be overwhelmed with catcalling hunters?’

Parvon sighed, giving in. In fact, the thought of taking his bow out was strangely appealing; he had not practised for weeks…

And it would be good to have a friend who was not connected to the King’s Office, for however short a time.

‘Very well, then. Come to the Healers’ Hall at that hour; I expect I can persuade Healer Nestoril to set up a target or two in her gardens.’

‘I will be there. And I’ll be in the Feasting Hall for the later serving tonight, if you’re dining late…?’

‘I am not sure how long my meeting with Master Melion will take.’ Parvon gave a small smile. ‘While I am grateful for the thought, do be sure not to delay your meal on my account.’

‘I’d better not keep you, then,’ Thindorion said, smiling. ‘The sooner you begin your meeting, the sooner it will be over and I may see you later…?’

Parvon shook his head, but found himself smiling as he rose from his seat.

‘I can walk you out, at least. And, Master Thindorion, I am grateful that you are still a friend to Triwathon.’

‘It was my pleasure, Master Parvon, I… apologies, that sounds wrong. He was telling me about visiting Galadhrim, can you imagine…?’ Thindorion shuddered as he gathered up the documents Parvon had prepared for him. ‘No, best not, really. Good evening, then, until tomorrow.’

Once Thindorion had gone, Parvon closed the outer office door and squared his shoulders. Melion. It was not so long that all had been easy between them, but now, every encounter seemed like something Parvon had to brace himself for. He knocked on Melion’s door and was summoned inside the office.

‘Before we begin, you didn’t think to let me know you were in your workroom, Master Parvon?’

Almost impossible not to sigh…

‘I felt that to do so may have been misinterpreted, Master Melion. But you may tell the elves who clean that my robes have nicely dusted off my chair, they need not trouble.’ 

As an attempt at humour, it was meagre, Parvon realised, and so was unsurprised when Melion did not respond.

‘What I wanted to discuss was his majesty’s pubic audience tomorrow; I have another commitment and so cannot take it, you will need to attend. I know we said that when there were newly-arrived elves, you would not be required to take the audience, but the elves in question are going to their rooms tonight, I understand. Therefore they will not want you in the morning.’

‘Their first day here, I need to be available to them, Master Melion. Oldor cannot substitute for me, these are the first arrivals since he joined us; he needs time to learn the potential issues. I know he could not help with the audience, but Baudh…’

‘…is entirely unsuited to the task! No, I need you to do it, for what else should I do, defer the public audience? Or just let all the elves mill around and find their own way in? His majesty will be most displeased when I tell him!’

‘It is unfortunate; I hope he will not be too angry with you.’

‘With me? It is you who are refusing to take the audience! And from the sounds of what I have overheard, so that you can be sure to have time free for your new friend…’

‘But you arrange the times of the audience, Master Melion. I have no say in that, nor in the timing of the convoys from the New Palace. I do assure you I am not putting my personal life before my duties. I could have told you earlier, had you asked, that I need to keep the morning free for the elves...’

‘But I can never find you, Master Parvon!’

‘I have been in the Healers’ Hall all afternoon, until I left to come to my workroom; you saw me there yourself. I was hardly in hiding, Master Melion.’

‘Not today, perhaps. But other times…? I am beginning to wonder what you do when you are not here…’

Parvon bit back a hot reply. Nestoril’s words concerning Melion came back to him and, however much he resented this intrusion, however misplaced Melion’s enquiries, the truth was he had been unavailable, hiding in his small, old rooms… and he did not want their working relationship to deteriorate entirely…

‘Well, I will attend early, assign an order to the supplicants’ interviews, and leave word with Master Oldor. If I am needed, he can then inform me, and if there is a clear order of audience to follow, he should be able to cope with that. I hope that is an acceptable compromise?’

‘I suppose it will have to suffice. Very well. You may go.’


	73. A Reunion Unlooked-For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lord Ecthelion of the Fountains is startled with news from an unexpected source...

Lord Ecthelion of the Fountains, most-beloved lover and forever fëa-mate of Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower (and currently domiciled in the Halls of Waiting) stretched out his long legs and reclined back in the winged armchair at the fireside, allowing his head to fall to the side as he surveyed the idly playing flames in the hearth. At his side, a small table held a board and pieces; a game, half-played, waiting for his opponent.

As was Ecthelion...

His majesty the Elvenking, Oropher of Greenwood the Great, was late, as much as there was such a concept here in the Mandos. In fact, time passed somehow, but one was so shut away that one was unaware of it, unless a new arrival were to speak of their previous existence in such a way as to demonstrate the passing of the years. 

Ecthelion preferred not to note the passage of time, but had been unable to escape the fact that, while he had died in the First Age, outside the Halls and across the Sundering Seas, the Fourth Age, the Age of Men, had begun. Elves had died, spent their time of penance, and emerged into the light of Valinor, cleansed in fëa and restored in their remade bodies to live anew in bliss and joy.

And still Glorfindel, his beloved golden sunlight, was not arrived; no doubt he was playing the hero somewhere, he had always seemed unable to refuse to help people...

Thel himself could have exited the Halls long since, and spent the time preparing a home for them both, readying a new life somewhere. There was a New Gondolin, Lord Námo had told him, and fair Tirion still shone with its gleaming towers. Perhaps Glorfindel would like to return to the place of his birth… or he might rather live by the sea, which Ecthelion himself would find rather pleasant. But the prospect of leaving, by himself, had been rather daunting, and Findel would surely be along soon, would he not…?

So time had slid by like a slow river running fast beneath, and Lord Námo had become a sort of friend, pausing to pass the time of day, so to speak, introducing him to various elves from around the Halls. This was how he had made King Oropher’s acquaintance, an introduction from Námo.

‘I am sure you will get along well together,’ the Doomsman of the Valar had said. ‘You have mutual elves in common, oddly enough.’ And, privately, he had added, ‘Oropher needs his mind taking off things. You could do that, and might benefit yourself, if you can turn his thoughts away from his guilt.’

‘For what does he carry so much remorse?’ Ecthelion had asked.

‘You’ll see,’ Námo had told him.

*

To begin, Lord Oropher had been remote, sarcastic, bitter and unpleasant. It was only once Ecthelion had mentioned Glorfindel as his friend that Oropher had unbent a little.

‘I thought you to be yet another tiresome Noldo,’ he said. ‘But if you know Glorfindel… he was the best of them, really.’

‘I concur, Lord Glorfindel is the best of all elves, my lord! He is part Vanyar, you understand.’

‘Makes a difference, sure enough.’

‘But do tell me, my lord; how do you know my friend? And what was it happened to you, to bring such grief upon your fëa?’

‘My elves were slaughtered in front of me, all because that Noldo fool Gil-Galad wouldn’t listen to a decent plan! Your Glorfindel, he saw it, but couldn’t work it. Came to help, he tried, give him that… brave fellow. Still cut down, though.’

‘My lord? Glorfindel, _cut down???’_

‘No, fool! Keep up, do! Me, I was cut down. One of my own tried to come to me, he got battered for it. Glorfindel, his knights, they came fast, not fast enough. Still, some of my elves got out. Oh, my beautiful, beautiful Silvans, their joy in battle, their courage, their blood on the ground, running onto their beautiful hair, their deaths on my hands. My hands. My fault, really. And Gil’s.’

‘Now, my lord, the latter I can believe, although I know him not… but if you died trying to protect your elves, surely you ought not bear such a burden of guilt?’

‘Can’t help it. But you cheer me, somehow.’

So had begun an odd sort of friendship. They met not often at first, but gradually Oropher began to seek out Ecthelion in the library, to throw himself down into the seat opposite and sigh and speak of this Silvan or that he’d met in the Halls, how the elf had said there was nothing to forgive, it was not Oropher’s fault… but still the Elvenking could not bring himself to believe it. His wife faded, and was in the Halls, and left them again to new life, without Oropher seeing her, for he denied he had the right to sully her with his presence, after he had let her, and her Silvan elves, so badly down.

It was sad, and Ecthelion felt great pity for the king, but what could he do, other than try to cheer him? In time, he introduced the game board, and there were occasions when Oropher’s spirits lifted enough for him to break out of his gloom and talk of Glorfindel’s exploits for the House of Elrond.

‘Only a half-elf,’ he said. ‘But good blood on the other side.’

‘Indeed, if he is the son of Eärendil… I knew him when he was a small, spoiled brat of a child, always whining for me to make pipes for him… still. Glorfindel saved him, and so he must have some worth… I hear he opened the way to Valinor once more, and the Valar came to Middle Earth to fight the darkness?’

‘They certainly did that. They drowned half the world in so doing, of course; when he came back, your Glorfindel was devastated to learn Gondolin was no more… but that’s another tale…’

So it had begun. Now, though, Oropher was late, even reckoning by Mandos Time…

Finally he arrived, his air brisker than usual, his attitude less morose than he generally could be.

‘You seen him yet, Ecthelion?’ 

‘I am sorry, my lord… to whom do you refer?’

‘That Glorfindel of yours. Saw some new arrivals, Silvans, poor things, there were dragons. And that Glorfindel caught up in it. Seems he killed most of ‘em, saved the day, died in some poor fellow’s arms, and then was brought here with my Silvans. Lady I spoke to, said they gave him full Silvan rites, best tree in the forest to sleep under…’

‘My… my lord? Do you tell me Glorfindel is… is here? Dead, and here?’

‘What I’m told.’ Oropher shrugged and sat down to the game board. ‘You didn’t know? Sorry about it. Well, your move…’

But Ecthelion had already moved – out of his chair, the library, and off down the corridors calling for Lord Námo with the same voice that had struck terror into the enemy at the Fall of Gondolin, and utterly disrupting the pace of the Halls of Waiting in the process.

*

The Doomsman of the Valar heard the commotion echoing around his usually silent and peaceful corridors, and he sighed. A confrontation with Ecthelion was the last thing he wished; he had been biding his time, waiting for the right moment to bring him to Glorfindel’s bedside, but as yet, it had not arisen and now his hand would be forced, Ecthelion, already unhappy, would become more so, and all because Oropher had been unaccountably talkative…

He beckoned and one of his many assistants materialised before him.

‘My lord requires…?’

‘News of Glorfindel. Has the change happened yet?’

‘Not yet, my lord. It is our opinion that there are some who still grieve him overmuch, or who do not yet realise and so speak his name freely, thus holding him in this condition.’

‘Hmm. Well, no matter. You may go.’

He flicked his fingers and considered for a moment how to deal with this upwelling crisis. Really, there was no precedent, and the only course of action that he could see required an absence from his Halls… perhaps it were better to get this over with…

When Ecthelion hammered on his door, shouting for him to explain himself, he was ready, but held off for a moment…

*

‘Námo! Lord Námo, let me in! I demand an explanation!’ Ecthelion punctuated his shouts with the pounding of his fists and his voice shook the very walls themselves. ‘Let me in! I demand you speak to me!’

Yes, surely Ecthelion’s voice was just as loud as legend had it… Name flicked his fingers and the door clicked open. Ecthelion strode in, his fëa exhibiting the red and purple tones of anger and distress.

‘Why did you not tell me Glorfindel was here?’

Námo drew himself up to twice his usual height. The intersections of his joints, usually flickering white light, now showed black flames like moonlight on obsidian, and his eyes glowed orange and red.

‘Do you forget to whom you speak, child?’ he asked, voice dripping venom.

‘I beg your pardon.’ Ecthelion bowed. ‘I meant, of course, why did you not tell me Glorfindel was here _my lord Námo?’_

In spite of himself, Námo laughed.

‘Oh, penneth, there is no fear in you at all, is there? Come, be calm, sit with me. Although I owe you nothing, I shall explain, for I do not like to see you distressed and my Halls are unused to such verbal violence.’

He diminished to his usual stature and gestured to chairs. Ecthelion, exhausted by the outburst and the effort of raging through the corridors, fell into one and dropped his head into his hands.

‘I… had thought he would come to the gates for me one day, and he would be there, smiling and golden and… and instead, he has died again? Dragons, Lord Oropher said, my beloved was slain by dragons? How…’

‘I was with him to ensure he felt no pain at the last. He was amongst friends, and died a hero. Again. I truly believe he would have come to you sooner, but there was always one more task, one more person to see safe, another thing to do first… but here he is.’

‘How… how long, my lord?’

‘Not too long. Longer than a short time. He is… the reason I did not tell you is that until he has progressed into his healing phase, there was no point; you would only demand to see him, and it would distress you. Better to wait until he was recovering, and then I would have come to you straight away, my friend. I am not as cruel as you think me, you see.’

‘But, it is Glorfindel! It has been quite literally, ages since I saw him…’

‘Would you not rather see him when he is recovering? Sit with him as he wakes, and be there, the first he sees?’

‘I would… but I would begin at once…! I do not care how long…’

‘Ecthelion, it would break your heart…!’

‘My heart is already broken, lord. I need to see him, however ill he looks, I… I have missed him…’

Lord Námo looked down at Ecthelion and sighed. His dead guests could not generally express emotions physically, they might smile, or laugh, or go through the sounds of weeping, but real tears were all but impossible. Be that as it may, a ghostly tear pearled its way down Ecthelion’s face…

‘I suppose if I refuse, you will search the Halls until you find him, even if I have him impossibly well hidden… but be aware, little soul, he died in violence and its marks are on him still.’

‘Then I shall be also aware that, as you told me, he was in no pain at the last and so he is in no pain still. But, my lord, I need to be with him.’

‘Come, then.’

It was not so much that Námo led the way through the corridors as that once he made towards the door, the surrounding environment slurred and deformed, to settle again into the appearance of similar passages. But there was a door, and Námo halted outside of it, Ecthelion reaching towards the handle.

‘You cannot stay with him,’ Námo said with a gentleness at odds with his previous manifestation. ‘You may see him, look at him, talk to him. But then you must come away. You understand I can pull you away if you do not follow my wishes in this?’

Ecthelion nodded.

‘Very good. In return, I will give you my solemn oath that I will tell you if there is any change in his state of being.’

‘I am grateful, my lord.’

‘I wonder if you will think so presently.’ Námo lifted a hand and the door swung inwards. He led the way in and stood to the side of the bed. ‘Come, then. Come and see your hero once again.’

Ecthelion surged into the room, came to a halt beside the bed and dropped to his knees. His hands reached out, failed to make contact, for fëar had not enough substance to connect with each other. He covered his face and wept, as Námo had feared he would.

Presently, the Lord of the Halls broke into the sounds of sorrow.

‘Penneth, had I known that all you wanted to do was weep at his bedside, I would not have allowed you here. He may, perchance, be able to hear you.’

Ecthelion sniffed, and drew back, trying to calm himself. His shoulders jumped as his breath hitched and he wiped at his face with his hands as he properly took in the sight of his love, lying on his back, arms at his sides beneath a light covering.

‘I was trying not to look,’ he said in halting, puzzled words. ‘My Glorfindel here, and I was afraid to see him in his battle-honours… that is why I hid my face in my grief for the pity of it. But… but see, his hair is still golden… ah, did you try, this time, to tie your glorious hair back, my beloved? So many marks on you, my shining one, it must have been a mighty battle…’

‘First, he was lifted into the air.’ Námo approached now, gently retracted the covers with due regard for Glorfindel’s modesty. ‘You may see the talon marks on his ribs.’

‘Yes, I… ah, ‘twas a big beast?’

‘Very large. A dam, feeding her brood. He slayed her last child and then she flamed…’ Námo gestured to the raw burns on Glorfindel’s shoulder, arm and face, where his hair had been scorched away. ‘With the unexpected help of his horse, he managed to kill the beast, but he was wounded… in its death throes, the creature landed across his body, staunching the blood.’

‘I see the marks on him, oh, my golden one…! And he was alone, through this?’

‘Hardly. His horse stayed with him. And I was there.’

‘Thank you, my lord, for taking the pain from him. But Lord Oropher said he was not alone…?’

‘His friends found him. Some from Imladris, some Galadhrim, some from the Greenwood; he made friends amongst the Silvans long ago. In fact, it was their eagerness to help that contributed to his death; the dragon’s head had been keeping his wound from bleeding, but they did not see and when they moved it off him… I think it is better this way, he would have been a long time healing.’

‘My lord, it seems to me from what you say, he has not begun healing yet.’

‘You understand, then, why I sought to protect you from the knowledge and the sight of him?’

A sad smile fought for a place on Ecthelion’s lips. ‘Yet my love is still beautiful to me. Oh, I have missed you, most beloved Glorfindel!’

‘Come away now, and you can return again.’

‘How soon, my lord?’

Námo shrugged.

‘Presently. Not very long. But I have work to do first. Come, come away. Lord Oropher is impatient to finish the game.’

Ecthelion sighed. ‘And thus I spend my time, waiting for a moment with my love once more.’ He paused to bring his lips as close to Glorfindel’s forehead as he could. ‘Sleep well, most dear Glorfindel! I shall return!’ Turning away with reluctance, he nodded to the Doomsman of the Valar. ‘Very well, Lord Námo. I gave my word, and so, lead on.’

*

Arveldir drew in a sharp breath as he sat up in bed, instantly awake even as he blinked clear his inner eyelids. Seeing the figure standing just inside the doorway, he spread his arms to protect the sleeping figure of his husband beside him.

‘You cannot have him!’ he said softly. ‘Not unless you take me too, but please, spare my Erestor…’

‘Oh, Arveldir, when did you become so dramatic?’ Námo asked with amusement in his voice. ‘I am not come to take anyone, you are quite unnecessarily anxious. No, I merely have come with a request.’

‘I see.’ Arveldir swung his legs out of bed to sit facing his preternatural visitor. ‘I do not wish to disturb my husband; it has been a difficult few days.’

‘Glorfindel is caught between sleep and healing; he needs release.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. He died most bravely.’

‘It seems the Silvan ritual may be hampering his progression. There is a gemstone which needs memories speaking to it? And there are some still speaking his name?’

‘My lord, we arrived with the news but three days since! Melpomaen and Lindir still arrive at table with red eyes and tearstained faces; while the house is trying, my friends are still grieving.’

‘Then perhaps they need to see where he rests, and come to terms with their loss. They will meet him again, of course; these elves are not Silvans who choose not to sail.’

‘That does not stop them having loved him, my lord, and missing him. The intention is to return the stone and visit his resting place, once the winter is past. But that would mean a delay of many weeks… if our rescuer’s healing is dependent upon it, the stone must go back sooner.’

Námo nodded. ‘I think it is how Silvans release the worst of their grief, is it not, talking out their memories to the gemstones? Yes, let it return as soon as possible.’

‘I will not leave Imladris again so soon,’ Arveldir said. ‘Erestor’s wound reopened on the journey back, and I will neither leave him nor make him endure the discomfort again. But Elladan could go, to represent the House of Elrond, and with him Melpomaen and Lindir.’

‘I thought it would be nice if Celeborn went, too. He knows the way… that is, assuming he still has his wits?’

‘We were surprised to find him much recovered. It was the one bright spot in our days of darkness.’

‘I will pay him a little visit while I am here, then. Let them hasten, Arveldir. If they leave tomorrow, they can be there in a week.’

‘I hardly think so; even on horseback it will take twice that.’

‘No, they must travel in haste. I will speak to the weather and tell it to be kind. Well, it was nice to see you again, Arveldir. Goodnight now.’

Námo faded from the room, leaving Arveldir to collect his frayed nerves. He turned in towards his husband and curled around his back, breathing in the sleepy, warm scent of him. He held him close, closer, closest, and did not let go through the rest of the night.


	74. Audience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one of the supplicants for the King's Audience has something to say...

‘And may I ask what matter you wish to bring to the king this day?’ Parvon asked the elf before him.

‘It is about our living arrangements; we were told there were no larger rooms available, but then there seems to be plenty of space for the elves from the New Palace, yourself excepted, of course, Master Parvon.’

‘I see. And is this not something best dealt with by the King’s Office, perchance?’

‘We tried and Master Melion said we had accepted the rooms we were in decades ago and if they have been suitable for all this time, we should not complain now simply from envy, but it is not that…’

Ah. Had the elf come to him, or even spoken to Baudh, perhaps the same answer, phrased more tactfully, would have had a different response. But too late for that now.

‘Would you be willing to allow me to enquire of our accommodations elf?’ Parvon suggested. ‘As you can see, there are many elves waiting this morning…’

‘No, because I don’t think the Elf-in-Charge will allow us to be helped by anyone. He seemed to disapprove.’

‘I can quite see you are unhappy with the situation. Very well, I will try to put you towards the start of the morning, if you will take a seat here…’ Parvon ushered the elf towards the bench where he was putting the priority elves; several supplicants were already in place there, and the unhappily-housed ellon joined them. ‘Good, and if you will excuse me…’

He continued around the room, sorting elves onto different benches according to priority. Not everything was easily quantifiable, and so he tried to keep matters interesting for the king by mixing up the various problems. Several elves he sent on their way with recommendations that they simply read the information boards, or that their problems were not something his majesty could help with, but even so there were still eight elves waiting by the time he had finished sorting them. He made a note of their names and order of going, in case he had to turn the duty over to Master Oldor, and waited for the nod from the guard that told him the king had entered the Hall of Audience by his private access.

He approached the king, bowed, and ushered in the first querent, introducing their concerns briefly and then waiting by the doorway to be either dismissed by the king, or to attend to his instructions concerning the matter brought.

When he left the Hall of Audience to usher in the third supplicant of the day – the same whose accommodations were now inadequate – he found Master Melion outside. He murmured a greeting, unsure whether Melion’s business was over and he was come to take over, or the Elf-in-Charge was simply making sure Parvon was where he had said he would be, and was about to beckon to the elf when Melion spoke.

‘How long is the delay this morning, Master Parvon?’

‘Everyone here is waiting for their audience, Master Melion. No more than an hour, I should think, probably less.’

‘I do not have time to waste waiting…’

‘Then allow me to send for Master Oldor and…’

‘I seek audience with his majesty.’

‘Oh, I see. If you would take a seat, then, Master Melion, I will mention to our king that you are here and ask his pleasure.’ 

He tipped his head, once more gestured for the unhappily-housed elf to join him, and ushered him into the king’s presence; he did not see why he should simply let Melion push in…

Thranduil heard the supplicant out in silence, his hand supporting his chin. When the elf faltered to a stop, and bowed, he raised a silvered eyebrow.

‘Really, Parvon? You have not sorted this matter out yourself?’

‘It was not I to whom this supplicant spoke, sire, or I may have been able to be of service.’

‘Very well. You.’ The king pointed at the elf, who swallowed hard, uncomfortable. ‘Have your accommodations shrunk?’

‘N… no, sire. But… but my family, as I thought I had mentioned, is about to increase. My wife and I are last kin to two elflings whose nearer relations died in the recent disaster, and although they are not with us yet, we expect them once the healers in the New Palace think them well enough, and so we wish to be prepared.’

‘I see. The kingdom is grateful, then, that you will take under your care these children of the forest. Parvon, speak to Master Baudh to arrange a meeting with this elf and his wife, and see what you can do.’

‘Gladly, sire. If I may mention, my king, Master Melion is outside and intends seeking audience…’

‘Is it important?’

‘To Master Melion, no doubt.’

‘It can wait, then, until the end. Very well. Bring the next elf forward.’

‘As my king desires.’

* 

It was not what Melion, desired, however, nor Parvon. The Elf-in-Charge scowled each time Parvon came out of the Hall of Audience, and so fierce was his expression that two of the waiting supplicants decided they could defer their business until another day, and fled.

‘Why have you kept me waiting?’ Melion hissed, as Parvon left the Hall of Audience with the last of the supplicants. ‘This is not what I expected of you, Parvon!’

‘In fact, it was his majesty’s suggestion,’ Parvon said. ‘But our king will see you now, Master Melion.’

Melion lifted his head and entered the Hall of Audience, bowing low to his king.

‘Melion? We met this morning. Why would you require pubic audience?’ Thranduil asked.

‘Because, sire, I wish this to be a matter of public note. I am grateful that there is opportunity to discuss matters, of course, at our morning meetings but this is a different topic.’

‘Very well. Parvon, you need not stay.’

‘But, sire,’ Melion spoke up before Parvon had bowed himself from the room. ‘The matter concerns Master Parvon. He ought to stay, if it pleases you.’

‘Nothing about this pleases us, Melion, it strikes us as unnecessary. Very well.’ The king lifted a languid hand. ‘Commence.’

‘It is to do with your majesty’s King’s Office. There is an elf there whose behaviour has become intolerable. He is secretive, unreliable and does not take orders well. Matters have come to such a pass that I feel obliged to personally ensure the work with which he has been entrusted, has been done. It is coming to the point, sire, where it is either him or me; if he does not go, then I fear I must!’

‘I see. And you have consulted with other members of staff concerning this elf?’

‘No, sire, it is not necessary.’

‘Master Parvon, come forward. What do you make of this? You look somewhat outraged…’

Parvon came forward, shaking his head as he tried to master his expression.

‘Sire, I do not know of anyone in the King’s Office whose behaviour has not been appropriate at all times, unless Master Melion is referring to me. We have had some issues, but I had thought we were working through them to mutual…’

‘Sire, this is not quite accurate, I have done my utmost to be accommodating, but…’

‘If it were not obvious from your stance, and tone, Melion, I would suspect you of collusion here.’

‘Sire?’

‘Of attempting to demonstrate your dissatisfaction with Master Parvon so that I will give in to his recently-unspoken but still present wish to return to the New Palace. However, this is not the case, I deem. Very well, Master Melion, having made clear your position, we will consider it. You may go. Master Parvon, you may stay.’

It was an uncomfortable wait, with Thranduil’s eyes on him until the door closed behind Melion. Even then, it was a few moments before the king exhaled and sat more upright in his regal chair.

‘I hope you understand, Parvon, why I do not wish you to return to the New Palace?’

‘In fact, sire, I do not. But my understanding is unnecessary; my service and obedience to my king does not require me to comprehend your majesty’s intent.’

‘Very well. I do not quite know why Melion seems to have decided he does not like you, Master Parvon, but I was sore tempted to tell him to pack, I assure you.’

‘I am grateful, my king. I shall endeavour to…’

‘It is not something you need do anything about, Parvon. Attempting to coexist will make the palace more peaceful, perhaps. Melion shall hear my thoughts on the matter in due course. In the interim, continue as you are. Well, your colleague has had sufficient time to leave the outer hall, you should be able to go without him haranguing you, Master Parvon.’

‘Thank you, my king.’ Parvon bowed. ‘We all know, of course, that haranguing is your prerogative, sire, and not a task to be devolved to a minion.’

The king fought against a smile.

‘Quite,’ he said. ‘That is all for now.’

*

Parvon left quietly, relieved to find Melion hadn’t decided to wait for him, and made his way to his small, private rooms to think things through. 

At least the topic of the morning was different from that of last evening; it had taken him long into the night to process the chaos of his mind, to calm himself to the thought of Triwathon and Thindorion, to accept the dyer’s offer of friendship as just that. It would not be without its difficulties, of course; befriending the latest lover of the one you loved was hardly sensible – but knowing the association was over, as far as Thindorion was concerned, had given Parvon no real reason to refuse the big elf’s kindness. And if reports were anything to go by, he really did need to learn how to shoot properly…

That dealt with, the morning had brought a sort of resigned calm with it. Parvon had been trying not to notice the thought that kept creeping back, that, now Triwathon had moved beyond the glamour of Glorfindel, now he had realised he could be intimate with other elves, he would find the chance to do so, and surely it would not be long before Triw’s name would be romantically coupled with some elf or other… but at least, in his vulnerable time, he’d had a friend to guide him through… 

The day, then, had started with Parvon tired from lack of proper rest and thoughts of Triw tormenting him still, unsure whether it would be worse to be present, and see Triwathon fall for elf after unsuitable elf, or to be unaware of what was passing, who might be taking up his spare hours, his nights. Now, though, Parvon’s thoughts had been given another direction and were more immediately centred… Melion’s verbal attack, made in presence of the king, no less, had been completely unexpected and, really, out of character… nor were all Melion’s claims unfair, if one chose to read them in such a way. But Parvon had not thought it more than a temporary clash, something that time would smooth over… to hear Melion was prepared to lay down such an ultimatum was not only shocking, but obscurely distressing… he really had not done anything to deserve it…

Perhaps it was just as Nestoril said, that Melion was prone to occasional lapses. Yet the difference between his behaviour on Parvon’s arrival, and now, was really quite marked…

There was not time, however, to linger and ponder; he had matters to attend to, whether Melion liked him or not. His first visit ought to be to the Healers’ Hall, to thank them for their attentions to the new arrivals… oh, and he needed to ask if he could have a practice range set up in their gardens… although, at present, the last thing Parvon wanted was to spend an hour teaching someone to shoot, even – or perhaps especially – Thindorion.

But when Parvon put the notion to Healer Nestoril, she thought it was a very good idea.

‘To give the elves who will sail a chance to brush up their skills without the guard watching, it is a very good thought,’ she said. ‘I will arrange for a brace of targets for you for when, did you say?’

‘For the hour of the daymeal,’ Parvon replied. ‘Although to begin, it is just Thindorion. He asked my aid, or I would not push myself forward…’

‘But it is an excellent opportunity to involve the other elves who are sailing, which would make it part of your official duties, and then you are a fine archer, Parvon. And, if I may say, Thindorion is one of my favourites, not that I am supposed to have any…’

‘I understand. He does seem to have a way with him that some elves might find… no matter. The convoy elves, did any stay with you overnight?’

‘In fact, no, they were all happy to be shown to their new rooms.’ Nestoril smiled. ‘It was wonderful to see Baudh and Oldor working together. I think the idea of introducing them to each other was little short of inspired!’

‘I am glad they are happy with each other, and in their work,’ Parvon said. ‘Until later, then, Healer.’

He left the Healers’ Hall and decided on courtesy calls to the newly-arrived elves, in part to apologise for not staying all afternoon with them the previous day, and to make sure all was well.

‘For I had to attend his majesty this morning,’ he told more than one family, ‘and was concerned lest you felt abandoned…’

But the elves were comfortable and content, and there was much praise for ‘Young Master Oldor, it is so nice to have friends from the New Palace here, Master Parvon, and the rooms are bigger than we had expected, and perhaps having stone over our heads is better than dragons…’

Privately, Parvon wondered how long it would be before the dragon attack faded from thought, longer for those caught up directly in events than for those to whom it was just a story and glimpses of burned trees, no doubt. This took his thoughts back to Triwathon, and he wondered if his friend was coping with still being there, so near to where Glorfindel died. He shook his head at himself, and tried to leave the thought behind him in the corridors.

At the last place on his list, he heard familiar laughter from inside the room and, when he knocked, the door opened to reveal Baudh on a settle in the corner, having his braids tugged by an enthusiastic elfling. 

‘Ah, I was just come to see how you are settling in,’ Parvon asked. ‘I can see my colleague is at home, at least!’

‘Oh, we are very pleased with everything, Master Parvon,’ an elleth said, rescuing Baudh and cuddling her braid-tugging elfling close. ‘It already feels like home.’

‘That’s good to hear. No, Master Baudh, there is no need to disturb yourself…’

‘But I was merely playing with the little one, and accepting the hospitality of our new friends,’ Baudh said, rising to his feet. ‘Although there is a matter I wanted to put to you, if you have a moment, Master Parvon?’

Making appropriate farewells, they left the new family, and when Parvon would have led off towards the King’s Office, Baudh hesitated.

‘Could we talk in your rooms, is that possible?’ he said. ‘Only Melion may be at his desk…’

‘Of course we may, if you wish.’

Once there, seated in the chairs in the small living space, Baudh began.

‘It’s Melion,’ he said. ‘I know he’s being odd… and, I should warn you, he was talking about an audience with the king…’

‘That was this morning,’ Parvon told him. ‘He insisted on my being present. It was not a comfortable discussion, unfortunately.’

‘Well, he went to see Naneth a few days ago. She had a suggestion – that he sail with her. No mention of Gilrin and the family, just Melion. And, somehow, Gilrin heard, and there have been… discussions, and another talk to Naneth this morning, which I thought was why Melion wasn’t leading the order of audiences…’

‘It would solve the problem of a proper person to keep records of the journey, I suppose. But I would not have thought Melion would want to go? He was so vocal about not travelling with Master Ravomen?’

‘Not in the circumstances, not without Gilrin and some of the family, at least. He’s being pulled every way possible, and he doesn’t know if he wants to stay, or go, and Gilrin isn’t keen to leave yet… I don’t know what Adar would say, or Canadion, and Faerveren would be unhappy… but Melion always knows what to do, you see, he’s always been sure of himself, and his life, and now suddenly, he doesn’t know what’s for the best, and whatever he chooses, someone is going to be unhappy, or annoyed, or such, and he’s used to being popular…’

‘My parents did not even think to ask my opinion,’ Parvon said. ‘Let alone enquire whether I would wish to accompany them. I can sympathise, but really, if this is the reason Melion has been so out of sorts, he needs to recognise that his private life and his private life are now in conflict, and it is not helpful to anyone with whom he has to work…’

‘That’s true enough.’

‘But as far as it goes, there will not be room on this ship for all the family. Really, the lists are full, and I have more elves than I officially have berths for them; I might be able to find a place for one more, if that one were willing to go where he was put, but that is all, really. He would have to wait for the next vessel if he wished to take anyone with him.’

‘Do you have any idea how long that would be? Only if Melion carries on like this, I’ll be sailing myself, if I can talk Oldor into coming with me…’

*

‘No, Thindorion, you need to lift your line more, strengthen your centre body and become part of the ground, allow yourself to…’

‘Parvon, why don’t you just show me what you mean?’

Parvon left his place next to Thindorion to stand further in front and a little towards him, careful not to get in line with his bow and the target. ‘Stand so, and…’

‘I meant,’ Thindorion lowered his bow, ‘Triwathon stood behind me and moved my elbow to the right position, and it was much easier…’

‘Thindorion, you are talking about an elf who formally tutored short bow. Now, if you want to be tutored by an elf of the guard, that’s fine, but I was taught by my brother, and he was a better shot than I…’

‘All right! Perhaps I was just trying to encourage you to be more tactile…’

‘And why should I wish to be? There is no need, if you comprehend the lesson, you will then feel the stance. Try again, lift your bow… not so high… feel the link between every part of your bow and arrow and your body, and the ground, and see how the target is also connected to the ground and then breathe, hold, sight and release…’

The thunk of the arrow hitting the home caused Parvon to nod. ‘Very good, you see? You do not need mauling around to find the target!’

‘It’s the outer, though. Imagine what I could do with a little steering…’

‘Perhaps I can help there, since Master Parvon is reluctant?’ Nestoril called from the door into the Healers’ Hall. ‘May I join you? I have been watching you, and remembering how much I enjoy taking my bow out. I could do with a little practice.’

‘Please do, Healer,’ Parvon’s smile was genuine, and he tried not to admit to the relief he felt. It was just Thindorion’s way, it seemed, to be so friendly that it could seem lightly flirty, but it still made him a little uncomfortable. ‘It is the least we can do, since you allow us to use your gardens.’

‘I am glad to help. Will you come again?’

Parvon glanced at Thindorion, who was grinning.

‘If it is not an inconvenience, Healer, I think perhaps we will.’

‘Let me get my bow, then, and see if I can still remember which bit of the arrow goes where.’

‘Tomorrow, same time?’ Thindorion asked while they waited for the Healer’s return. 

‘I am not sure I can. Tomorrow I must be available to those who intend sailing…’

‘Of whom I am one, so if you are available to me, that counts as work, does it not?’

‘It will if I gather other elves to practice, I suppose.’

‘Ah, but I liked the privacy of our session… not that I mind Nestoril joining us, of course, but…’

‘I am beginning to believe you are incorrigible, Master Thindorion, and no matter how much I try to be accommodating, you will just ask for more…’

‘Ah, the use of that word ‘Master’ shows I have offended you…’

‘Not in the least; I seek merely to preserve the distance between us to its proper levels.’

‘But as you have said, I’m incorrigible. So would it not save time if you were to give in?’

‘A thought: I will lead lessons for those who will sail, of which you will be one, and thus I can spend two hours working with everyone, and then, we can have supper in the Feasting Hall privately, if you wish.’

‘Ah, but my idea of private dining would be in your rooms, or my rooms…’

‘You see? You take what is offered and reject it for the impossible…’

‘But did you not just say that if I aim, I am more likely to hit my target?’

‘Which you will never do, if you stand so sloppily! Now come, brace your back and feel the tension, lift your bow and nock the arrow, watch how I do so and…’ Parvon held his breath, let fly the arrow, and gestured to the target where his shot was still reverberating in the gold. ‘Thus is it done.’

Applause, from the doorway, and Nestoril, carrying her own archery equipment, came across to join them.

‘Well done, Parvon, well hit, indeed!’ 

Parvon bowed. ‘Ah, but you are my superior in every way. Please – if you would show Thindorion…? And do feel free to physically adjust his positioning, apparently he does not mind…’


	75. Practice and Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon finds he has made a friend...

In the days that followed, Parvon was surprised to find archery practice to be a sanctuary, of sorts. It provided a reason to be legitimately be away from his desk for at least a few hours each day, away from the awkward, stiffly polite exchanges with Melion who continued to be frostily distant when they could not avoid each other. Having an acceptable duty which took place in public meant there could be no accusations of being difficult to locate and, besides, interest in honing their archery skills amongst those elves who were sailing was high, notwithstanding the fact that they would be escorted by a company of able warriors. 

So great was the interest in target practice, in fact, that Parvon had to split the elves into three groups, meeting daily, for there was not room for more than a pair of targets in the Healers’ Hall gardens. Thindorion, declaring himself the most abject archer amongst them, used every session he attended as a way to further his friendship with Parvon, much to Nestoril’s amusement and Parvon’s bewilderment. 

That the friendship developed at all had much to do with Thindorion’s persistence and Parvon’s politeness; he could not help liking the dyer and whether or not there might still be an ulterior motive to his insistent friendliness, still Parvon could not bring himself to refuse to meet in the hall for the day meal before practice, or supper, unless his duties absolutely did not permit him the time.

‘There is news,’ Parvon began one evening, two days before the next convoy of elves from the New Palace was due in. ‘A hawk from Ithilien; word is that winter storms caused one of the ships in the harbour to break its moorings and crash into the Valinor vessel which is building there; it is not serious, but has set the work back by two or three weeks.’

‘So I have longer to practice, then? Or what will happen, because if we leave when the relief company wants to…’

‘You, and the others, could simply spend the time in Ithilien. But I have made the Over-Captain aware and it is up to him, and the king, to decide if they stay their departure or not. And so at present I will not mention it to the other elves who seek ship. There was something I wished to ask of you, however…’

‘Yes?’ Thindorion sounded hopeful, although Parvon, shaking his head, could not imagine why.

‘There may be need for one amongst the company to make brief daily reports, to be returned to the King’s Office with the next returning company; it is not decided yet, but if it is so, would you be able to keep records for us?’

‘For you, Parvon, anything.’

‘That will not be necessary. Just a few daily notes; we can discuss it properly once I have the king’s consent, for otherwise one of the King’s Office must accompany the group, and that would leave us short-handed.’

‘I see… I think. Will I need training in King’s Office methods…?’

‘I’m sure you will be fine. We will give you guidelines to follow. Now, tomorrow I will be busy, and so there is no communal archery practice. We can meet informally, if you like, at the hour of the day meal, but I need to look over the rooms for the next group of arrivals first…’

‘The palace must be feeling quite empty now, I suppose. What will they do, do you think, gather in the villagers to stay in the main complex?’ 

‘I am not certain.’ Parvon shook his head. ‘The formal communications go to Master Melion, and he has not passed on any information; I used to pick up such non-procedural news as there was from… from Triwathon’s letters, but…’

‘But he didn’t have time to write with me being there, and now it feels awkward, maybe? I wrote to him after all, it felt… difficult, somehow, though. Besides, he won’t answer. I’m sure he won’t answer… don’t you think?’

Parvon rather thought Triwathon might answer a letter from Thindorion, whereas he could not bring himself to write to Parvon, and the thought stung him. 

‘I could not say; he is likely to be busy, I expect, and it may be difficult for him to find the time. Well, as soon as there is news of the convoy, I will let you know,’ he said, and turned the subject to the matter of Thindorion’s apprentices, and how they had adjusted to the news of their master’s forthcoming departure.

*

Next morning there was news of another sort; Master Melion, who had been keeping as low a profile as possible following an uncomfortable meeting with Thranduil some days before, gathered the entire King’s Office together, including Merlinith and Araspen from their temporary post in the Matters Matrimonial office, to hear a pronouncement from the king.

‘His majesty has empowered me to inform you all that we have had news from Imladris,’ he said, his voice formal and his gaze going over Parvon’s head as if he were not there. ‘A message has been received by hawk to say that we are in expectation of a deputation returning the starlight gemstone with which their recently-deceased seneschal was honoured. It will come here first, and once those elves for whom it is relevant have spoken their memories, it will go to the New Palace for those there who knew the elf who died…’

Parvon, realising how much this would hurt Triwathon, to see the stone returned and to have to speak his memories, perhaps without a friend to support him, felt his heart clench in his chest… if Thranduil would relent, would let him escort the stone, then surely it would be better for Triw than if strangers took it…

‘…Celeborn, kinsman to our own king, leads the party, along with the elder son of Elrond and two others of the household… we do not know when they will arrive, but they hoped for a swift passage of the mountains and to be here, we estimate, before the departure of the elves for Ithilien. Ideally, there would be time for the gemstone to then go to the New Palace and return here, to then proceed onwards with the relief company of warriors to the colony, for Prince Legolas must wish to speak his own memories, given that he travelled with the deceased during the War of the Ring…’

‘Master Melion, do we know the names of the others in the party?’ Parvon asked. 

‘I will speak to the Over-Captain to see whom amongst the guard company can be entrusted with the task…’ Melion continued on as if Parvon had not spoken. Baudh cleared his throat.

‘Master Baudh, what is it?’

‘Who else is coming with Celeborn and Elladan?’ he asked.

‘Did I not say? I have the names, Lindir and Melpomaen, whomever they might be…’

Parvon swallowed. He knew the names, he knew from Triwathon’s stories of time spent in Imladris, that Lindir was their chief bard, and he knew from more recent events that Melpomaen had been Glorfindel’s latest lover… ai, that would be awkward for poor Triwathon, perhaps more awkward than Parvon had found greeting Thindorion… but there was nothing he could do to help… the elves’ coming to the Old Palace first, though, that would be difficult in itself, no doubt the news would go up with the next returning convoy carts, and all the commander could do would be to wait… no, it was not good…

And no real idea when the little group was expected; the hawk had been sent three days since, and so it was possible the travellers were over the mountains already… or perhaps snowed in on the passes… it was difficult to know, at this time of year, and while the weather had been mild and damp over the forest, that was not to say the same would hold true for the passes of the mountains.

But as it was, Parvon had other matters on hand.

He spent the rest of the morning with Baudh and Oldor, inspecting the accommodations for the next convoy, due at some point the following day. 

‘How will we divide the duty?’ Baudh asked lightly, as if it was of no matter to him, but the very lightness of tone suggested it might be significant.

‘I have archery practice with the sailing elves in the early part of the afternoon, so if the convoy arrives early, I will be on hand at the Healers’ Hall should I be needed... if they come later, I should be free, of course. I was most grateful for your assistance last time, and both you and Master Oldor were spoken of with much praise and appreciation… do you have a preference, Master Baudh?’

‘Master Oldor and I would be happy to escort the elves to their rooms, whenever that might be, but as for attending them during the welcome session… we are happy to be introduced, but following that, I may be needed elsewhere, especially in the evening…’

Parvon closed the door to the chamber, gestured to the seating provided.

‘Perhaps this requires proper discussion, then, Master Baudh. Of course, I am aware that your department suddenly needs to find formal guest chambers for four guests of some standing, at short notice, and yet without any real knowledge of when they will arrive…’

‘It is one concern, yes. You see, when the king told us we might take over the previous guest chambers for use, there was a plan to make more, better accommodations for visiting dignitaries… but then there came the rock fall, and the need to replace the rooms lost to that, and time passed, as it will for elves, and suddenly there was need to provide new rooms for refugees from the New Palace, Master Parvon. It is not an excuse, it is simply that there has been no need of formal staterooms and so our efforts were prioritised elsewhere.’ Baudh lifted his shoulders in a sort of a shrug. ‘I intend seeking suitable rooms as soon as we are done here, but as I may have just a few days to spend on them…’

‘You can have my rooms back, if it helps,’ Parvon said. ‘I can easily lodge elsewhere for a few days or weeks, it is no matter to me. And, if I might suggest, I remember you telling me that your own chambers are the same as the Balrog-slayer used when he was here…?’

‘Yes, that’s true… but while it’s kind of you to offer your home…’

‘It is not my home, Baudh, no matter how I try. However. My point is that Melpomaen was close to the Lord of Gondolin… very close, if you follow… and so I think your rooms, offered with an explanation of their relevance, would meet with his gratitude. Lindir, who was also a friend of the Balrog-slayer, he might be content in my chambers. It would halve your workload, Master Baudh, and I can move my belongings across this evening so that you can begin.’

‘I see. That would be a very big help, in fact… I don’t suppose, Master Oldor, that I might lodge with you for a few days…?’ Baudh tried to keep his expression calmly enquiring but failed magnificently when Oldor nodded. ‘Well, that’s very nice to know, I am grateful…’

Parvon cleared his throat. ‘You said finding suitable lodgings for the Imladris party was one concern… is there something else?’

‘There is, it is…’ Baudh sighed, his previous smile fading. ‘I don’t want to admit it, because of keeping family and duty separate, and I do try, but it’s a personal issue. A… a favour for Melion.’ 

He sighed again, more heavily, his head bowing.

‘…and I know I ought not get involved, but I have been asked to, and it seems such an unfortunate situation that I must do something, and I am not going to even try to justify my brother, but…’

‘I would not dream of prying, Master Baudh.’

‘No, you’re one elf who wouldn’t pry, Parvon, and so… it would be good to confide in you. Oldor already knows, of course, but… well. My honour-sister hasn’t taken kindly the news that Melion has been invited to sail with our mother. In fact, she has been so… discomfited by the news that she’s decided to take the younglings and visit her family for a few days, so that Melion will know what it’s like, she said, to have one’s mother put before oneself… and what it might mean to be one one’s own…’

‘I see. How very unfortunate; I cannot imagine Master Melion will sail, though. He has seemed so set against even travelling to Ithilien with Master Ravomen involved in the trip…’

‘Well, Naneth has a way of making it difficult to get a word in, which does make it hard to refuse her. I think, if he’d told Gilrin from the first that he didn’t want to go, she would have been less disposed to take offence, but, apparently, he didn’t. His first question was if she’d thought of taking the family across the seas… and even then, if he hadn’t mentioned Mother…’ Baudh grimaced, his expression eloquent. ‘Sometimes, he can be such an idiot! However, I said I would visit her tomorrow evening…’

‘Does your honour-sister’s family live far?’

‘In fact, no – just the other side of the palace complex, in fact. Not more than a half-hour’s walk through the corridors. Of course, I’m not going to pass on any messages – in fact, I really think she’s taken it very calmly, and is doing exactly the right thing to make my brother consider all the implications… I want to show my support for her, really. She’s followed Melion up and down through the forest from the start, and he shouldn’t keep expecting it of her. So, I’m sorry, it is a personal matter, and I wouldn’t let it intrude, but…’

‘I can quite see that your intervention might possibly restore some sort of order sooner than if matters were left. Baudh, your family must come first in this; I will manage my convoy, with Master Oldor’s help. It is not like last time, when I was… overburdened.’

‘Overburdened? You looked as if you were fading on your feet, and I don’t know why, and I shan’t ask, but I’m glad you’re looking better and, of course, I’m grateful. But for the moment, the rooms are ready, and that was a good thought of yours, about the Imladris guests. I can make a start on clearing my chambers immediately, get the housekeepers in to clean, and then look at what top-class furnishings we have available.’

‘My own rooms will be vacated by the end of this evening, Baudh. I hope you will pass on my regards to your honour-sister.’

‘Thank you, I shall. Of course, if the convoy arrives early, there will be time for me to assist and visit Gilrin as well… I’d go this evening, but I think she needs the time to talk to her family about things first.’

‘Of course. Besides, it gives Master Melion time to consider his position. Very well, I think these rooms are excellent, and, Master Oldor, you have the list of whom to put where, in case I am side-tracked?’

‘Yes, Master Parvon.’

‘Good. If anyone seeks me, I shall be in my workroom, probably. Although I am expecting word from the Over-Captain, and if it does not come, I may have to seek it.’

*

Before the afternoon was out, however, Parvon had word from the barracks. The Over-Captain had decided that, while the delay to the ship was not relevant to him, his majesty’s wishes were that sufficient time be left to allow the Lord of Gondolin’s starlight gemstone to have arrived, gone to the New Palace, and returned in order to travel south, and so, although it meant deferring the planned start to the journey, his company would leave in seventeen days, and so everyone had better begin to prepare themselves for the long walk down. For Parvon, this meant visiting all the would-be travellers and making them aware of the planned departure, and reiterating the need to travel as lightly as might be.

It was almost as if reality began to dawn on some of the elves, then, as they looked at Parvon, seated in their various homes, and looked around them at the things on the shelves, the accoutrements of daily life that made things easier, more comfortable, and more than one elf said something along the lines of: 

‘But Master Parvon, I know you said it would be soon, but I did not think you meant it… we will be travelling in the cold of the year…’  
‘That was always the intention. But what of your place on the ship?’ Parvon asked in reply. ‘When you said you wanted to sail, I asked at the time, did you mean it? I ask again, now. Do you still mean it?’

At this point, often the elves would exchange glances, and nod in unison, but at more than one set of rooms, Parvon was asked if they might think about it a while longer…

‘Take the rest of the day to consider again,’ he had told them. ‘That is all the time I can spare your second thoughts, for if you do not wish to take up your berths, there are other elves who waiting for them.’

Finally, just one couple decided they would wait for the next ship, or the one after, or perhaps not sail at all, despite the warnings that any subsequent trip to a port would need to be undertaken by their own efforts…

As for Parvon, busy that night with the itinerary and prospective route as he was, he still found time to consider the journey of the elves from Imladris. The Over-Captain really was not leaving them long to make the trip, although he had stated he was allowing twice the time it would take one of his companies, plus another seven days for the gemstone to receive memories from the Old Palace and the New… that thought led on to another, to whom would the gem be entrusted, and he found himself wondering about Triwathon again, and shook his head fiercely. 

A knock came at his door.

Glancing up, he realised that while he had worked, it had grown late, so that really, it was past the usual hours for enquiries.

‘Yes?’ he called out. 

‘Parvon?’ Thindorion smiled at him from the doorway. ‘We have no arrangement for tonight, but you were not at first serving, and so…’

‘Work,’ Parvon said, tidying his documents and writing implements. ‘But, if you have waited for me, I beg your pardon, I am just done…’

He rose from his seat, took off his outer robes of office and let them hang on their stand, trimmed the lamp and went to join his friend.

‘Although I will not be able to linger, Thindorion,’ he said. ‘I still have work this evening; a matter I promised Master Baudh I would attend to.’

‘Is it something I could help with?’ Thindo offered. ‘I know it’s convoy day tomorrow and so I don’t know if there’ll be time for us to outside of the practice session…’

‘We will see,’ Parvon said, not really knowing himself which part of Thindorion’s statement he was replying to. ‘Come, I am hungry this evening as I have not been for days. Shall we hasten?’


	76. So Many Things...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon finds himself assisted by Thindorion, and has much to do...

In the finish, Parvon agreed to allow Thindorion to help him move his belongings from the formal rooms he’d been allotted, and across to his smaller, modest chambers. 

‘Give an hour once we leave the table,’ he said, ‘and I will be packed.’

‘Really? Is that all the time you need?’

Parvon gave his small smile. To Thindorion, it made him look knowing and secretive and very, very private.

‘Yes. I never really settled in, you see.’

‘Well, I must admit, in my rooms, it would take me twice that to tidy up if I was expecting you to call never mind sort out and pack…’

‘Do not be anxious, Thindorion. You need not worry about my visiting you at any time soon.’

Thindorion sighed. ‘That’s a pity. I was going to ask if you’d like to come to supper one night.’

‘But the food here is as good as we would have privately, and probably stays hotter,’ Parvon said. ‘Besides, the Elf-in-Chief likes to know where I am.’

*

True to his word, Parvon had cleared his cupboards and drawers and had packed everything into two bags and a box, with the exception of his archery equipment which was propped against the now-empty wardrobe in less than an hour. The bed had been stripped, bedding folded neatly for the housekeeper to take away, and the rooms looked lifeless and unloved. And why not? He had not loved them, these rooms were not dear to him.

Thindorion was prompt, knocking gently at the door and lifting a bottle of wine when Parvon opened the door.

‘I thought you might like a drink to help the work go smoothly?’

‘Thank you. But the work is done, except for the carrying. I wonder why you are encumbered with wine when you know there is carrying to do? but never mind. It is this way…’

‘Parvon! Are you not going to ask me in?’

Parvon lifted an eyebrow in unconscious imitation of the king.

‘By all means, if you wish, but it is not very comfortable.’

‘Really?’ Thindorion grinned, and entered, looking round. ‘You are right, it’s a dismal place, indeed! What a shame I could not see them when they were homely. Now, my rooms are much nicer; I have a window.’

‘Yes?’ Parvon forbore to mention the fact that a skylight of crystal in the bedchamber let in the starlight, the only thing he liked about the rooms. ‘How pleasant for you. So, there are no cups, for I have packed them, I am afraid. Perhaps the wine will keep.’

‘I’m sure it will. Is this everything?’ Thindorion slid the wine into a box which he then picked up while Parvon took charge of the bags, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder. ‘No wonder it hasn’t taken you long to pack.’ 

‘This way.’

Parvon set off, noting, as they passed Melion’s family rooms, that the door was opening. He hurried on, lest Melion come out and address him. Thindorion didn’t seem to notice Parvon’s hastening steps.

‘My rooms are very nice, really,’ he said. ‘Not only is there a window, but they are spacious, well-placed…’

‘It is a wonder you wish to leave, then.’

‘Ah, now that is unfair…’

‘Forgive me. Sometimes, however pleasant the rooms, one’s heart is not there. I do understand.’

‘Where is your heart, Parvon?’ Thindorion said softly, but Parvon decided the dyer must have been thinking aloud, and so did not reply lest it encourage him in wayward speculation.

Reaching the entrance to the corridor down which his rooms were situated, Parvon paused.

‘Thank you, Thindorion, if you would like to set the box down, I can manage from here.’

‘Ah, now, Parvon, what sort of a friend would I be if I did that?’

‘The sort to respect another’s privacy, perhaps?’

‘Come, I promise I won’t disturb you with unwanted visits, although what in the name of all the stars are you doing down here? This corridor is a mess!’

‘It really is not. Mostly, this area is turned to storage, but these were my original lodgings and when I returned, I reclaimed them. It used to be quite charming. Here, this one.’

‘There’s been work done recently on the other side of the passage…’

‘I am some way from a bathing pool here. There is a hygiene unit there, that is all.’ Parvon unfastened his door. ‘Since you will insist… come in, be welcome, sit at ease.’

Setting down his burdens, he lit the lamp, placing it in a wall niche, and found cups from the shelf while Thindorion looked about him and finally took a seat.

‘This is very… compact…’

‘Yes. Fortunately, I am not over-tall, and this is the space I was used to. Where is the wine, Thindorion?’

‘Here.’ Thindorion unstoppered the bottle and poured out the deep red liquid. ‘Here’s to moving rooms.’

Parvon lifted his wine cup. ‘And to travelling in search of a better place to live. I hope you will be happy in Valinor, Thindorion.’

‘I’m sure I’ll find a way to be so, Parvon. Of course, it would be nice to have a friend there…’

‘I thought you were friends with the poacher – that is, Triwathon’s lover?’

‘Apart from him, I mean. He may still be getting into trouble for all I know.’

‘Well, I am sure you will find plenty to occupy yourself. And there is the chance to make new friends on the way to the ship, I think. There are several single ellyn who are travelling.’ Parvon swirled the wine in his cup, sipped and set it down. ‘Thank you for bringing the wine; it was a kindness, but I still have things to do this evening. I should really go back to the old chambers, make sure they are tidy.’

‘Parvon! I thought we were…’

‘Friends? We are, of course, and I appreciate your help. But I have a busy day tomorrow, and any work I leave undone tonight must then be added to my schedule and would probably mean I could not attend archery practice.’

Thindorion sighed for effect as he got to his feet.

‘I had been going to say, having a nice chat together, but since you think you’re busy, I’ll walk back with you then, if that’s all the company I shall get from you tonight.’

‘You are very kind. It is simply unfortunate that I have so many things to do tomorrow.’

*

So many things! More enquiries from the sailing elves, a final check of the rooms for the next convoy’s arrival, word from the garrison that the New Palace the settlers had been spotted and were breaking for an hour, but then proceeding on… that information to take to Nestoril, the archery session (brought forward to late morning) to oversee… Thindorion was at the practice, and greeted Parvon in his friendly way, but didn’t push forward, or attempt to demonstrate to the other elves that they were friends, for which Parvon was quietly grateful. Elves did like to gossip, and he had no wish to be part of yet another rumour…

He did, however, manage to insert into general conversation the fact that he would be busy for the rest of the day with relocating elves from the New Palace.

‘…it also means I must return to the King’s Office, for the dispatches will be in soon.’ He glanced in Thindorion’s direction, saw the big elf nod acknowledgement. ‘If there are any questions about sailing which cannot wait, I will probably be in my workroom for an hour, but after that, tomorrow is the earliest I will be properly available… well done to you all, I am sure you will agree that continuing practice has improved your abilities admirably, my friends. And so, good day.’

A tip of his head in the shortest of bows, and Parvon was able to leave without being waylaid by any of the company. Returning to the King’s Office, he saw Melion’s door open and tapped lightly on its surface.

‘Yes?’

‘Master Melion, I will be in my workroom through the hour of the day meal, after which I shall be at the Healers’ Hall with the new arrivals.’

‘Good, it is helpful to know. Masters Baudh and Oldor are working on refurbishing the rooms in our corridor for the guests – I hope you find your new quarters to your liking?’

‘I am sure I shall manage,’ Parvon answered, not quite sure if that meant Melion had discovered his return to his original small lodgings or was merely being polite. ‘You have the dispatches? Is there anything of significance?’

‘A list of names from Master Faerveren – the next set of returning elves. I will see Master Baudh gets it in due course. There is nothing from the garrison concerning their prisoner.’

Parvon had expected it would be so; if Triw had found it too hard to write last time, of course he would not write now… besides, if he had any time for correspondence, no doubt it would be Thindorion who was the recipient…

‘Perhaps it is just as well,’ Melion said after a pause. ‘Given the circumstances. Still, who am I to judge…?’

‘I doubt that Elder Gomben is comfortable in the cells, but he is a stubborn individual,’ Parvon said, not quite knowing what circumstances Melion meant but not wanting to ask. ‘Unfortunately, our king being equally tenacious, if it comes to a battle of wills, I can see the New Palace being empty with just the elder left locked up…’

‘I will speak to him myself while I am there. Oh, I did not say, did I? Or you were busy elsewhere when it was agreed… Someone will be needed to bring the Balrog-slayer’s starlight gemstone to the New Palace, and accompany any of the Rivendell elves who might want to go along and see where their seneschal fell, and so I will escort them. It will give me chance to speak to Master Faerveren and Master Merenor about Mistress Cullasbes taking ship. I do think Faerveren will wish to return to say goodbye, and so I can cover the New Palace while he does so. It is all arranged.’

‘Is it so?’ Parvon tried to sound unconcerned, but to have confirmed that he would not be allowed to escort the stone was not pleasant, and to have it all done without a word to him was simply another indication of how unimportant he had become. ‘I am sure he would rather hear the news in person, and from kin, Master Melion.’

‘Yes, I shall make sure the information is passed on outside working hours, of course. Well, I hope your new living arrangemets work well for you, although I am surprised, but then, it is nothing to do with me…’

‘I am grateful,’ Parvon said, wondering now how Melion had learned so much about Parvon’s rooms so quickly. ‘I am used to little space, it is not difficult for me.’

‘It won’t be for long, of course. Do not let me keep you from your work.’

*

Parvon had been at his worktable just long enough to have become absorbed in his tasks before he realised he had not properly closed his door; it was Melion’s voice alerted him.

‘Master Thindorion, are you seeking Master Parvon? He is within, but if I may suggest, you ought to take him off for the day meal since he talks of working through…’

‘Thank you, Master Melion, I just want a moment of his time…’

The exchange provided an opportunity for Parvon to clear his papers away and go to the door. Melion was being very odd, all of a sudden, encouraging him to be away from his desk… perhaps it meant he was settling down once more to his previous genial self… it would be a relief, if so.

Parvon got to the door just as Thindorion was about to knock on it. 

‘Master Thindorion, you have a query?’

‘It will take a moment only, but I am charged with taking you to eat, if that suits you?’

Parvon smiled. 

‘I suppose we could take the day meal together,’ he said, ‘although I had not intended breaking off… but since Master Melion approves the notion, it would be churlish to refuse. If your matter is not of a private nature, we can discuss it in the Feasting Hall.’

*

‘I know it’s a full day for you today,’ Thindorion said as they took places at a quite table. ‘So I am grateful for your time, Parvon.’

‘You are quite welcome, Thindorion,’ Parvon began. He made his tone a little less brisk than his usual conversational style, as the dyer looked less cheerful than was usual. ‘In fact, I would have sought a way to speak with you in any case. The despatches are in and, I am afraid, there was nothing marked for your attention amongst the letters. Of course, it is possible that a personal letter may have been handed to one of the escort guards for you….’

Thindorion was looking at his plate, shaking his head.

‘No, I… I checked with the advance guards myself, nothing. I didn’t really expect…’

‘But you hoped.’

‘Yes. We were friends, I thought… he is busy, though.’

‘I am sorry if this disappoints you; I have waited in vain for a letter from Triwathon myself, and so can sympathise.’

‘Yes, of course you have, I am sorry, this is foolish of me…’

‘Not at all.’

‘…it’s not as if I wanted anything from him except an acknowledgement, maybe. Something along the lines of, it was nice to see you, hope your journey is fine, but… Anyway, I have found I am not as attached to him as I thought... But still…’ 

Thindo shifted in his seat, drank from his wine goblet, sat more upright and ate some bread and cheese, taking his time. Parvon left him to his silence and attended his own plate until he thought his friend’s composure had re-established itself. 

‘The New Palace elves will arriving soon,’ he said, changing the subject only slightly. ‘And I will need to attend the Healers’ Hall to address them. It seems…’

Thindo sighed.

‘What does it seem, Parvon? That you have to cut our meal short because you must go and waste your energy on these elves who were not actually caught up in the flames or the dragons but who are coming back sooner rather than later in the hopes of getting better lodgings? Or…’

‘… it seems.’ Parvon repeated firmly, adding a touch of King’s Office authority to his words, ‘that I have barely time to see one group settled when the next is here.’ He smiled. ‘I would have been at my desk for a further half hour in any case, and so no, I was not going to suggest abandoning you. Not while you seem unhappy. I well know how it hurts to be needed less than one expects.’ Parvon paused. ‘It does not only happen in matters of the heart, you know. I can offer you no comfort, unfortunately, but if you need a distraction, I am sure Healer Nestoril would not object if you accompany me to the Healers’ Hall… although if you think so poorly of the refugees, perhaps…’

‘Ai! Forgive me, I do not mean to criticise them! It was a chance remark that one person said to another! Besides, they will see that there is no favouritism here.’

Parvon smiled. 

‘They will indeed. Perhaps the King’s Office should make discreet enquiries of the New Palace to discover what the mood there is like. It would not do if we had a rush of elves all hurrying after something they will not have.’

‘Of course, if they grumble about their new rooms, you could always show them where you’re lodging…’

Parvon shook his head, pretending to be stern. But at least Thindorion was smiling again.

‘Thindorion, I am very happy where I am. There are memories in those small rooms which I find more than make up for the lack of space. Besides, I am, as I have said, not over-tall.’

‘My rooms are very pleasant,’ the dyer said. ‘Not too large for one person, but not too small for company. You should come and visit, you really should…’

‘It is kind, but you will not be there for much longer so…’

‘…so you must make the most of my invitation while I have a home to which I can invite you!’


End file.
